


The Splinter Inside Me - Part 2

by crewdlydrawn



Series: The Splinter Inside Me [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Closet Sex, Clubbing, Creepy Behavior, Descriptive Physical Violence, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Gaslighting, John Blake as Nightwing, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Control, Post-Time Skip, Psychological Manipulation, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge, Sexual Coercion, Sort Of, Stabbing, Stranger Sex, Time Skips, Training, Unhealthy Relationships, Vigilantism, teenage sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 62,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25584412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: John Blake has spent two years as Bruce Wayne's ward, and as the Batman's apprentice.  The milestone of legal adulthood leads him to redefine his relationships, and think about his future.  Meanwhile, Gotham's youth are going missing, and while the Batman and his protege work to piece the puzzle together, the city has gained a mysterious menace who leaves a strange signature behind.
Relationships: John Blake/Bruce Wayne, John Blake/Joker
Series: The Splinter Inside Me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/666590
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewaynecondition](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaynecondition/gifts).



> ***Special thanks to Maru for being SUPER-EFFIN' amazing and beta-reading this hot mess.***

_______________________ **Prologue i** _______________________

At Alfred’s sensible suggestion, John was careful not to overly insert himself into the runnings of the next age-out class that came to Wayne Manor. He was present at the start, since he knew all of the boys in attendance, but he was also keenly aware that he no longer had the same sort of commiserative experience with the group that he had had before Bruce had invited him into the home long-term. He wasn’t quite up to ‘spoiled rich kid’ in their eyes, but neither was he still a poor orphan. Even so, it was strange to sit several rooms down the wide, ornate hall, listening to the voices float out from the lounge as kids he had once lived with learned about their options. With a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, he fancied he could feel the resistance running through them just as well from down the hall. 

John kept a close eye on how Bruce related to the boys’ home once he had a ward of his own. While he didn’t think Bruce would suddenly drop any of the programs he sponsored just because John was living with him now, or especially due to their slightly strained position, he couldn’t help but mistrust the facts as they were. And those facts were that Bruce was an adult, and adults had a way of punishing those below them—in age or in station—for their own feelings of being slighted, ignored, reproached, or… anything, really. Why should Bruce Wayne, entitled billionaire, be different from any Joe Schmoe in the Narrows?

Except that John knew very well that viewpoint was full of shit. 

Bruce Wayne was, without a shadow of a doubt,dically different from any Joe—Schmoe or otherwise—from Narrows or market district. Bruce Wayne was the fucking Batman, and the Batman stood on a higher moral standard than anyone John had ever come into contact with in his sixteen-and-a-half years. For a while, he allowed himself to separate the man and the persona, trusting the cowl and cape while keeping a steady distance between himself and the man of the house. 

In the end, it was Alfred that saved the sanity in the Wayne household. John had made a point to be out as late as he could stand for the next couple of nights after finding out Jack had left. He took the bike, made like he was doing a practice patrol, and just stuck himself on a rooftop and brooded. If he couldn’t have distracting company, then he’d just be on his own.

After three nights of coming home to a dark and quiet house, this time someone was up when he got back. Even making his way through the garage after stowing his bike away below, he could smell the heavy scent of cocoa brewing on the stove. There the old man was waiting, in the pantry kitchen, with a paperback in his hand showing he had no intention of sleeping right away. John tried to just nod and walk through, but it didn’t pan out as a heated mug was gently pressed into his hands on the way by.

“Are you alright?”

Softening to his presence, he stepped up to the counter, holding his arms out. “No holes, no cuts, no bruises even, so, yeah, I’m good. Ahh, thanks,” John added after the first sip of hot chocolate warmed up his throat. There was a simple comfort to it, bereft of all of the posturing that living at the manor could provide. Even John’s birth parents had made cocoa in their tiny Narrows apartment, a lifetime ago. The frown accompanying his recollection caught Alfred’s attention, and he had to shake his head in response to the questioning white brows. “It’s good, don’t worry.”

“Something else on your mind then, sir?” Though the honorific was an automatic for Alfred, it still rattled John every time he got a ‘sir’, ‘mister’, or otherwise. They’d talked about it already, but there were only so many times John felt like reminding him in casual conversation.

Pushing off the correction, John weighed his options in response to the question. There were, of course, a lot of things on his mind, and most of them had nothing to do with memories of drinking hot chocolate. Taking another drink to stall, catching Alfred do the same out of his peripheral, John hauled over a stool from the other side of the kitchen’s middle island, propping himself up on it so his elbows could rest more comfortably on the countertop. “Guess so,” he opened simply.

A hum came back to him, then a raised wrinkly finger, and Alfred was off towards the cupboards. Curious, John sat up straighter for a moment as he tried to crane his neck around the cabinet door blocking his view. He had to laugh when the man came back with a can of mini marshmallows in his hand. Dumping a fair amount in his own cup, he held it questioningly towards John. 

“Oh yeah, definitely.” Taking the canister, he dumped a half-inch thick layer of dried sugary cylinders into his cup, completely obscuring the chocolate liquid below it. 

“Very good, sir,” Alfred nodded in approval, setting aside the marshmallows, but notably not putting them back in the cupboard, allowing future access. “Now,” he began, a teaspoon in hand stirring the treats further into his drink, “what has you so far in the dumps that you’ve stayed out ‘til this hour?” His gaze didn’t immediately meet John’s, or even settle aimed at his face, giving him more space to orient himself in the conversation. It was subtle, but it eased some of the tension in John’s shoulders.

‘ _It isn’t right.’_

The words came back to his mind as he tested the waters of his current frustrations, and their troubles just returned to his face once more, souring the taste from his cup as he set it back down with a sigh. With Jack gone, there hadn’t been anything lately to distract his mind from replaying his argument with Bruce. And while there were certainly benefits to having a firm definition of their relationship, it was far from the one that John wanted, or that he knew they could have. 

_‘I can’t. It’s not right.’_

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John shook his head. This wasn’t a conversation he was prepared to introduce to Alfred. What if he disapproved even more strongly than Bruce? What if he decided to call Child Protective Services? A prickling of panic shuffled its way over John’s shoulders, down his back, and out through his arms. How had he never considered the fact that the _other_ resident of the manor could have found the situation in which he and Bruce had found themselves a less than favorable one?

Almost as if he could see the contents of John’s thoughts, Alfred reached out a hand to cover John’s wrist, lightly, not gripping, but stilling the shiver he hadn’t realized had begun to tremble through it. “It’s alright, John.” His voice was so soft, so sincere, that it took a moment for John to realize he’d used his first name.

“…What’s alright?” he managed to work out past a run-dry tongue.

Patting the back of John’s hand, Alfred returned his own to his mug, raising it to sip through the marshmallows. “You and Master Bruce have had a bit of a falling out, quite recently.” In contrast to John’s ever-twitchy fingers, Alfred’s hands were steady, still, as he rested them against the island’s countertop.

“Uh, yeah,” John acknowledged carefully, licking his lips and covering it by drinking from his cup. About eighty percent marshmallow, that swallow, the sugary crystalline texture cutting sharply through the sour taste in his throat. “We had an argument, I guess,” he started with a shrug, playing it off as less than it was, “but it’s fine.”

“Pardon my boldness, sir, if you will, but it most certainly is not ‘fine’.”

John’s hands scrubbed over his face, digging into the corners of his eyes and rubbing as if he could sponge out the images of that night with Bruce. All of the nights with Bruce. But he couldn’t, and they remained as indelible as ever. “It will be,” he croaked, not believing it any more than he knew Alfred would.

Sitting straighter first, his back all proper, Alfred leaned more into John’s space, his voice considerably more soft and quiet as he spoke again. “If you’ll permit a moment or two of full honesty, John, I’m obliged to make certain you are safe.”

Safe? John’s eyes rose sharply to meet Alfred’s, and he blinked against the black spots he’d ground into them. “What do you mean?”

Alfred set his mug completely to the side, as if he’d never even filled it. “Love him as I do, trust him as I do, I must ask. Has Master Wayne taken advantage of you?”

The question hit him like a brick, and, stunned, it was a few seconds before John could conjure a reply that would make any sense. “Take… of _me_?” he parroted, pitch rising with his surprise. He cut the butler off before he could continue or try to restart. “No, Alfred,” a firm start, getting the matter settled before bringing up another one. “It honestly was more _me_ trying to take advantage of _him_ , and him not letting me.” The bitter taste was back, and he swallowed it down without cocoa this time.

“As admirable as it is to take responsibility for one’s actions, young sir, I’m afraid the specifics of your stations in life prevents you from ever being in such a position.”

Maybe there was truth to that, but John shook his head anyway, not dignifying it with a direct reply. “It doesn’t matter who did what or didn’t, because nothing’s happening anymore.” 

Sitting silently for several moments, Alfred slid his mug back into his space, taking a lingering sip, the majority of his marshmallows having melted into a fainter white swirl on the surface of the chocolate. “And this frustrates you.” It wasn’t a question, but an observation.

“Yeah,” John huffed sharply. “It frustrates me in at least two different ways.” His cheeks shot hot a second after he’d spoken, realizing how bluntly he’d just addressed his own libido.

Alfred, to his credit, let the comment slide. “Master Wayne has tasked himself with taking care of you, John, of making certain you are supported, cared for, and that you safely reach full adulthood with a measure of opportunity, health, and direction.” He paused, but John didn’t interject. “As such, regardless of some other ways in which he has taken it upon himself to let you into the inner recesses of his life,” _the Batman stuff_ , John acknowledged silently, “it would be deeply inappropriate for him to involve himself with your more personal physical needs.”

What a way to put it. John actually laughed, a genuine huff and chuckle, shaking his head as he watched Alfred’s eyes sparkle with the knowledge that he’d gotten to him. “Nice. I’m not a kid, though. You know?”

“Not yet an adult, though, if I may remind.”

John groaned. “I get it, I’m not legal.”

Alfred shook his head. “Legality is certainly there, Master Blake, but despite there being very valid reasons for such laws, it goes beyond that into ethics.”

Brows pinched, John tapped his fingers against his mug, absently. “That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not, and we can discuss the intricacies later, if you like, but the fact of the matter is that Master Bruce has to maintain a parenting role for you, for now, while you’re still under the care of him and the state’s orders, and while you’re finishing your growing.”

Smirking, cocking his head, John squared his shoulders. “I’m as tall as I’m gonna get, man.”

It was a far more genuine smile that countered his own. “Yes, of course. But we both know there are many other ways for a young man to grow into adulthood. Should you two indeed have an attraction, a connection past friendship, Master Bruce will _need_ to approach it from as equal ground as he can. Right now,” Alfred tapped the counter, a final pronouncement, “with your age, the way you have only just left an orphanage’s care, your new presence in Master Bruce’s life and his world, his social influence and authority, there is simply too much ground between where you each stand.”

John had found his cocoa very interesting to look at while Alfred spoke so plainly, and with a clear understanding of exactly what was going on between him and Bruce at the moment. Fiddling with the mug’s handle, he turned the cup this way and that, by millimeters, the liquid’s bulk shifting side to side as it tried to keep up with the momentum’s changes. Keeping the man in his peripheral to gauge his body language, John spoke quietly, more sincere than he’d intended to allow himself to get. “You think we’ve got a chance, when we’re more evened up?”

Alfred took a casual sip from his mug as if they’d never stopped doing so. “I think, Master Blake, that you two could be very good for each other, both now as friends, and perhaps otherwise in the future, when you’ve gotten your feet under you.”

Finishing the rest of their cocoa in silence, Alfred took the cups to the sink, patting John’s shoulder on his way back to his own room with his book. While he still didn’t get any more sleep that night, something inside John’s chest felt just a little bit less tight as he let himself lie down and rest.

_______________________ **Prologue ii** _______________________

The Batman had become particularly active in the nights that followed their argument. Without active leads, Bruce still let his alter ego prowl the streets of Gotham’s darker areas, watching, waiting for something or someone to pop up and give him an excuse to start a fight. It worked well enough.

After resewing stitches for the second time in a week, Bruce’s own attempts simply not cutting it, Alfred finally cuffed him across the back of the head with his own discarded glove.

“Are you quite finished getting into unnecessary fights?”

Over-acting a mouthed ‘ow’, Bruce swiveled on one of the stools he kept in the cave’s supply hollow mostly for this very purpose. “I thought you were on-board with all of this?” he shot back, unable to help feeling a bit betrayed by Alfred’s sudden change in attitude towards fixing him up. He made some stupid moves, sure, but the underlying support was usually still there.

Another swing intended for his ear had Bruce ducking out of the way and moving to stand opposite his friend.   
“You think I haven’t noticed the extra nights in the streets?” Alfred began, his voice carrying the edge of concern that he typically covered with frustration when aimed at Bruce. “The way you’ve pushed yourself to get beat up _every_ time the Bat goes out?” Setting the gauntlet aside, finally, Alfred skirted the stool and approached Bruce directly. “You’ve got to make your peace with it, Master Bruce.”

“With _what_?” shot out of Bruce’s mouth despite his mind knowing, on one level, exactly what Alfred meant. And, if he were fully honest with himself, though he rarely wished to be, exactly why he’d been pushing himself so much. Alfred, for his part, merely held Bruce’s gaze so he could switch over to that gear on his own. Raking a hand through sweat-matted locks, Bruce half growled in frustration. “He won’t even _look_ at me right now, Alfred.”

“I suppose avoiding him in silence is going to change that for the better?”

Gritting his teeth, Bruce took a breath to calm himself. He didn’t want to snap at Alfred, not again, anyway. There had been enough snapping lately for all of them combined. Thankfully, his trusted friend merely continued on his own.

“I’ve spoken with him, you know.” Bruce clearly looked as shocked as he felt, as it gave Alfred a chuckle. “You two are not as covert inside this house as you think you are.” He could feel his face heat up, and he busied himself with removing and hanging the rest of his suit and armor. Alfred stayed put, merely sending his voice after him. “He wants things to be okay between you two, and I’ve encouraged him to see your side of things.”

At that, Bruce turned, having been reaching for his towel to ready for a quick shower, having no shame in being stripped down in front of the man who’d raised him and tended to more wounds than he could count. “He doesn’t hate me for making him wait?”

Alfred’s face softened, and he walked over to hand Bruce the towel, amused. “He does not _hate_ you, Master Bruce.” With Bruce nodding his gratitude and moving over to flick on the faucet, Alfred seemed to consider his next words for a moment before finishing. “I think he cares for you quite strongly, in fact.”

The shower had already begun to steam, but Bruce had yet to step inside. Alfred’s words were still echoing in his head, and a tightness had settled in his chest. Holding no shame to himself, either, Alfred reached to pat Bruce’s arm, then turned to leave him. “I know you do,” he called over his shoulder, as if Bruce had actually said the words that his heart wanted to. But he hadn’t said it, and his friend had known it all the same. With a sigh puffing lightly in the chill air of the cave, Bruce put the whole thing out of his head and stepped under the water.

It was still a few days before Bruce felt fully capable of comfortably sharing a room’s space with John. Alfred was their go-between, keeping peace and keeping them from feeling isolated. It wasn’t as if they were intentionally passing messages through him, but he managed to update each of them on the other’s conditions even so. To his credit, he didn’t seem to mind.

On his way down to the kitchen, Bruce almost turned around when he heard both Alfred and John’s voices pinging down the hallway. Instead, he stopped, taking a breath before inching along the wall, shoulder against the molded paneling, until he was within a few feet of the doorway to the kitchen, listening. Listening, and then smelling, having to stop himself from rushing in when he realized he was smelling smoke.

“It’s alright, Master Blake,” Alfred was assuring him. Bruce could hear the clatter of metal lids, the range’s exhaust fan being turned on, and the flip-snap of a towel being waved quickly. “We just won’t tell Master Bruce.”

John’s voice was slightly less calm. “He’s gonna _smell_ it, though! I just wanted to make dinner for us… I wasn’t gonna _tell_ him I was making it, but now I kinda have to.”

Bruce smiled to himself, just at the thought that he would make dinner for all of them, even if he couldn’t directly admit to Bruce that he did.

“Of course he will,” Alfred didn’t even try to argue, “but that is why I will cook smoked salmon for supper, later. Had to prepare for it, I did. Hence the smoke.” Bruce could hear the amusement in his voice, and heard John laugh, a much easier sound than his tense words before.

“That’s kind of diabolically brilliant, dude.”

With the fan turned off, and the refrigerator doors opening and closing, Bruce figured he’d let enough time pass. He sneaked quietly backward, further from the door, first, then let his footfalls be clearly heard as he approached the kitchen. A bit more shuffling and hushed whispering went on before he stepped through. 

“Smoking fish again, Alfred?” Bruce asked with a performative sniff. 

“Indeed we are, sir.” An apron had already been tied around Alfred’s waist, and he had a salmon laid out on a cutting board.

Meeting John’s eyes, Bruce nodded to him, getting a hesitant nod in return. “Sounds perfect.”

He let them keep their secret, and it was a solid enough start. By the time their follow-up family court appointment came up a few weeks later, they were talking regularly enough that the ride to the courthouse wasn’t an awkward commute.

John’s typical snark had been muffled by nerves before they’d left the manor, and now his hands picked at each other, his gaze seeming unfocused as it aimed out the passenger side window. At a red light he know would take long enough for a moment or two’s distraction, Bruce bumped his elbow against John’s arm.

“You okay, kid?” Early on, he wouldn’t have dared use the moniker for him, but with how things had changed, it not only reinforced his position, but had become among the things John let him get away with. “Your cuticles are taking a harder beating than usual.”

At least his eyes were off the middle-distance as he shot Bruce a completely confusion-pinched expression. “What’s a cuticle?”

“It—” The light had turned green, so Bruce had to turn his attention back to the road, but he chuckled. “It’s the uh,” he tried to wave his hand in the general shape of the outline of a fingernail, but it didn’t seem to translate as he wanted it to, “that little skin-flap that grows on your fingernail.”

“Gross.”

A far more genuine smile creased Bruce’s face. “I guess it is, when I put it that way. Anyway, it’s what you’re going to town picking at, over there.” He jerked his head in the direction of John’s hands as he signaled to turn them into the courthouse’s parking lot. It wasn’t _technically_ a parking lot for court appointments so much as it was meant for officers and employees, but Bruce Wayne didn’t park at meters.

Freezing the hand motion, John looked down, fully noting the condition of the hangnails poised between his nail edge grips. “Fuck… yeah that’s uh, worse than usual, I guess.” Separating his hands—though that didn’t actually stop the twitch, as his middle fingers just ended up sliding over the edges of his thumbnails to keep it up—he twisted his torso to look in the side view mirror. 

“Don’t worry, your tie is fine,” Bruce assured, give his own a small tug to straighten it. Strictly speaking, _he_ didn’t need to be wearing one. In fact, given his position in the social net of the city, he could have walked in wearing worn out jeans and a baggy tee shirt and been treated roughly the same, but he wasn’t about to let John be alone in dressing up ‘respectable’, as the kid had put it. Having been in such appointments in the past, John had insisted they look the part.

“The tie’s not the only thing,” came John’s mutter, almost lost to the beep of Bruce’s alarm. 

Stopping them just outside the door, Bruce used the glass’ reflection to feign fixing up his hair. There was far too much gel on it for it to be out of place, but he hammed up the act, anyway. “You’re right, I was a mess. Thanks.” It got a reluctant and indulgent smile out of John, even with his eye roll, so he considered it successful enough.

They needn’t have worried quite so much, as they were in and out in under an hour, despite a little tension. Forty minutes were spent waiting on benches inside the courthouse; local proceedings never exactly played out on time. Five minutes had them signing paperwork to update the initial information. It took ten full minutes with the judge, who hadn’t planned on dismissing the matter on the basis of Bruce’s status, as he’d thought. The two were only so softly grilled on their daily life, Bruce’s plans for John’s education, John’s assessment of his care and treatment, and John spent a few minutes on his own, afterwards explaining that the judge had wanted his opinion without the influence of Bruce’s presence. There would be a social worker visiting them once a month for the next six, then twice a year until John aged out of the court’s responsibility. 

An investigation not so easily settled was his search for those responsible for his father’s death. Small quid pro quo had gained Bruce what little helpful information could be gleaned from the GCPD’s records in storage, but the bulk of the effort would be on their shoulders, at home. Fighting the disappointment in John’s face at their meager gains from the authorities, early on, Bruce had made him a promise that this was a fight they would not simply abandon, aware he’d started the work on his own, privately. 

Within months, they had names, not that it did them much good. All record of Chad Wannell and Ivan Grutetsky had vanished nearly three years ago. Traces and alerts were set on the super computer, waiting for any new appearances, records, or activity to pop up. Other avenues were out there to pursue, and they would find them. They would work together to find the truth, and bring it to true justice.

_______________________ **Prologue iii** _______________________

While it took most of the rest of sixteen to get back to a workable rhythm with Bruce, John spent seventeen firmly active as the Bat’s right hand. He was still in training, and according to Bruce he had a long ways to go, still, but he was gaining confidence. Bruce had certainly not spared him any reminders of his level of cockiness.

A half-birthday present—not that Bruce observed them as official—was what he called ‘suspension training’. Bruce met him in the deeper recesses of the cave that morning, before breakfast as ordered, which meant John was still rubbing grit from the night’s sleep out of his eyes as he followed the coils and buckles littering the rock floor.

“Uh… think I’m past the point where we say I gotta ‘learn the ropes’, don’tcha think?” he shot into the dark, having heard the tell-tale tinkering sounds of activity on his way in. When nothing came back, he wandered further inward, turning around to peer through the dim. “Bruce?”

“Not there,” growled from above him, and John looked up to see a shadow growing larger as it approached. “ _Here_.”

The voice had given him chills, the first time he’d heard it in person. Even after that, their earlier training times, he’d gotten a thrill at seeing that side of Bruce. Half asleep, still, belly empty, it was a little different. “Yeah yeah,” he dismissed, stepping away from and swatting at the rope he’d nearly walked smack into.

That shadow descended faster, rope zipping audibly at the strain, and John caught a chest full of shin when he reached the bottom. Reflexes allowed him to actually catch it, Bruce’s other boot striking the floor and rolling them both. Only an outstretched arm shot out towards the rock kept John’s head from striking back sharply.

“Finished?” heated air growled at his nose.

Breath catching back in his throat, John raised his chin. “For now.” Even in the limited light filtering down the cave, John could see the smirk on Bruce’s face. His arm removed as he stood up, Bruce offered a gloved hand to help John up. He wasn’t cowled, only the bare essentials to keep him from injuring himself unnecessarily on the rigging. “So what’s the process, here? Like gym class?”

“What’s gym class?” a clearer tone accompanied a quizzical expression.

“You—” John stopped, frozen for a second. “Do you seriously not—” Rolling his eyes, he pushed at Bruce’s shoulder when the man just started to laugh. “Gym class, what those ‘public school’ kids do, y’know.”

Tugging another rope over to them, a thickly-braided coil, Bruce handed it off to John. “How far can you get up without help?”

Surveying the strand, eyes rising into the darkness where he couldn’t even see where the top of the cave ended it, John gave a small shake to the rope. “Uh… I mean I was pretty good at it in middle school, so…” Without discussing it further, he took both hands, grasping high above his head and giving a yank and a jump. Cinching his thighs, he managed to stay a foot off of the ground, proud of himself as he gave another yank, rising another foot and a half before his legs slipped and sent him down with a whoosh for the rock floor. 

It was an absolute cackle that came from Bruce once John’s ass hit the floor. “Excellent,” he applauded, “just top of the class, really.”

“Shut up,” John groaned, rubbing at his hip once he was up again. “I forgot to wrap my foot.” 

“—forgot to wrap your foot,” Bruce’s voice joined in for the last few words, having assessed the same. 

He did better the second time, making it twenty feet before he started to slip. After doubling it alongside Bruce, climbing beside him to encourage his progress, he was feeling fairly proud of himself, that is, until Bruce flicked on the lights he’d anchored in the ceiling of the cave. 

“Jesus _fuck_.” John let his jaw go slack as he squinted, following the ropes all the way up to the hooks securing them. “Were you _all_ the way up?”

Tossing a wink John’s way, Bruce didn’t answer verbally. Swinging onto the thick rope like it might as well have been a stripper’s pole, rope only loosely swung between his ankles, Bruce rose smoothly away from where John stood and watched. It only took ten seconds for him to scale the distance, looking almost like a twisted frog as he squatted and leaped his way upward. Once at the top, his palm flat against the rock face, Bruce made sure John was watching before jumping to _his_ rope, making quick, silent work of sliding his way back down. 

“Easy-peasy.”

“Do not,” John started, finger wagging at Bruce, desperately trying to keep a straight face, “DO NOT… _ever_ say that again.” It took all of their effort to even _finish_ the lesson.

**~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~**


	2. One

_______________________ **ONE** _______________________

No matter how many times he’d worn one in the last two years spent as the ward of Wayne Manor, John still felt out of place in a tuxedo. They were a necessary evil, a visual statement of Bruce’s—and now his, by association—status in the city’s social and financial ladder, but for a kid out of the Narrows, it felt as much like putting on a mask as going out at night in his armored suit. Perhaps even more so. Knowing Bruce well enough at least had him aware that the effect was similar for him in some ways; the public’s idea of Bruce Wayne was a mask more superficial to his true face than the cowl worn by the Batman. 

Even so, despite the tried and true ‘misery loves company’, he found himself tugging the neck of his shirt, wishing the strap of the bowtie had just a little more give. Bruce had given up the small touches to his side to discourage the action. John tailed him, most of the night. It was his usual M.O., staying just a few feet behind him, a non-threatening distance for anyone who might want to have a business related conversation, though most of those were short, vague, and ended in a ‘have your people call my people’ sort of put-off. 

In general, John received the sort of polite pleasantries everyone else did, though in passing, as people engaged Bruce. One man, however, lingered behind after finishing the repetitive round with Bruce that John had heard over twenty times in that single evening. Releasing Bruce’s hand to let him talk to a few others, the man—tall, with a neat weave of silvering hair combed in such a way it was more obvious than he would probably like to know that he was covering barer spots—stepped over to where John nursed a glass of punch. The usual nod didn’t seem to dissuade the man, who reached his hand out toward John.

“Bertie Mayer,” accompanied the offered hand, the man’s voice coming out with a rough, throaty catch to it. It reminded John much more of someone from an old cowboy movie than the sort of smooth businessmen that populated this crowd. John’s acceptance of and solid shake to the man’s hand seemed to earn him some sort of approval, not that he had been looking for it. “So you’re the ‘ward of Wayne Manor’, huh.” John nodded, a polite and practiced closed-lip smile gracing his face for just long enough to convince. “I hear it’s your birthday soon; becoming a man.”

There had to be an angle, the man was far too interested, but waiting was all he could do at the moment. Walking away was risky if not done right, and Bruce had long ago warned him about offending the wrong sorts of people when they were out. Of course, he’d been _encouraged_ to perform just enough offence to provide a public character, of sorts, but it was not the opportune moment for that act. “John Blake,” he affirmed, first, giving the man a better title to work with, not that he would once their conversation was over. “And tomorrow, yeah,” he hid behind his glass for a moment, despite not being thirsty just yet.

Comb-over seemed happy enough that he’d been correct, letting out a dusty sounding chuckle. Tucking one manicured hand under the opposite arm, the man leaned his weight more on one foot, perhaps trying to appear conspiratorial. To John, he was only being obvious. “Eighteen’s big,” he began. “What does Wayne plan to do once you’re not legally in need? Will you still have a room in the Palisades mansion?”

Startled enough by the nearly overly direct question, John’s eyebrows shot up before he thought better of it. As it was, his surprise only seemed to amuse the man, who let out another dry laugh. Maybe the question had been a joke, something only to rile him, but John had seen enough of the glow of gossip in people’s eyes to be wary of personal questions, or the kinds that led to them. Deciding this one was harmless enough, though, he nodded, gesturing at Bruce’s back. “Bruce has actually offered for me to stay, if I want. He’s going to teach me about the business side of things.” Which was true enough, though mostly planned so that that exact answer wouldn’t be a lie, when needed.

“Bruce Wayne,” Mayer laughed louder than earlier, before lowering his voice toward normal, “teaching you about _business_?” With a shake of his head, the man reached into his suit jacket, producing a small card. “Wayne Enterprises does well, I’ll give you that, but between you and me, that has little to do with _Wayne_. If you find yourself in need of a job, son,” he held the card out for John, “you give me a call, understand?” John took the card, ready to comment, but Mayer continued. “Oh, since you’re almost a man,” with a turn, he reached to pull two fluted glasses off of a tray being held behind them, “have a man’s drink. None of that juice you probably got over there.” He made a vague shaky-hand gesture at the table John knew held non-alcoholic punch. He knew, because that’s exactly where Bruce had directed him when they’d first arrived. It was where he’d gotten his current glass. 

Even so, Mayer held out one of the fresh glasses to John, who reached to take it, if only to set it back down on a table, but it before he made contact, it was plucked out of the air by Bruce.

"He may be a man, Bertrand,” Bruce admonished as he joined them, “but the drinking age is still twenty-one."

Mayer groaned in complaint. “Oh, come, now, Bruce. Let the boy have a little fun, too.”

The placating smile that grew over Bruce’s face made it clear what he thought of taking suggestions from Mayer. At least, it was clear to John. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Mayer, and I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.”

With a politely nodded ‘Mr. Wayne’ to Bruce and another shake of John’s hand, including a not-so-subtle point to where he’d tucked away the business card in his pocket, the man left them, making his way to another target.

"Oh, so I'm a man, now, am I?" Pointedly sipping his punch, John's tone was intentionally teasing, aiming for the edge of Bruce's public mask in an attempt to sneak beneath it. The 'concerned guardian' routine had successfully warded off the last nearby person, and, for the moment, a rare moment at these functions, he had Bruce to himself.

Tipping the glass he'd taken, Bruce poured its contents into his own near-empty flute, meeting John's eyes as he drained it. "In another four hours, maybe," came his drawn out reply, his eyes having flicked out over the crowd before he spoke.

"Three and a half, by my watch," John corrected, not bothering to eye up the rest of the room. Setting his empty glass down, he crossed his arms just-so, used to the fancier suits enough to know how not to wrinkle his jacket. "You haven't let any plans slip. Not even Alfred has said a word about it. What's a guy supposed to think about that, huh?"

A nod sent across the room, accompanied by a tip of his glass, kept Bruce's apparent attention on the rest of the party. A tick to the edge of his lips, however, belied the focus to those who knew it well enough—in that room, John alone. "Are you worried you won't get a present?" His tone was calm, but the tease was obvious even then. "I think I came through for seventeen."

In fact, he had come through. 

> _"You realize I don't have a license, right?" John posed the question with a hand resting lightly on the rising, shiny chassis of his birthday present._
> 
> _Hands settled into the pockets of his trousers, Bruce pursed his lips, sweeping his gaze over the length of the vehicle. A small shrug lifted his shoulders. "I didn't think that'd be a problem; they're easy enough to get."_
> 
> _"I don't know how to drive," he argued, though good-naturedly, well aware that his eyes were still wide in shock._
> 
> _Grinning, Bruce seemed unable to resist. "Neither do half the people in Gotham, but they roll through the streets, regardless. Now," he continued, not pausing for a breath or moment that might have allowed John further rebuttal, "the car is yours, and I'll teach you to drive it. How's that sound?"_
> 
> _The laugh that followed the words, nearly interrupting them, clearly caught Bruce off guard. "What?" he asked, John’s amusement contagious as it began to spread into Bruce's cheeks._
> 
> _Patting the hood of the car, John shook his head, cheeks dented. "I've seen the news reports of you, out with these cars," he began, sweeping an arm to cover the rest of the open-space garage._
> 
> _"And?" Squaring his shoulders, Bruce cocked his head to the side._
> 
> _John's tone was flat, but no less carried by the smile that lingered. "Yeah, I'll have Alfred teach me, thanks."_

The blue Lamborghini with black striping stood in the manor's garage as public testament of Bruce’s treatment of John’s birthday. Inside the cave, on the other hand, a sleek Ducati of his own in midnight tones—altered as needed, of course—attested the more private attention. Both in mind, John nodded, adding an obligatory roll of his eyes more for stray glances than for Bruce's. "Yes, you did. And no," he argued, "I'm not worried I won't get a present. Just... curious as to the silence, I guess." Part of him wondered if the stand he'd taken nearly two years earlier had permanently changed Bruce's mind on what he might intend to do with him once he reached the legal age. It wasn't exactly a subject either one liked to bring up.

A waiter passed near them with an empty tray, and Bruce took advantage of the opportunity to set his empty glass on top even as it moved. It balanced perfectly smoothly in its transition, something John knew the man would be silently smug about even if it didn't show on the outside. Coming up beside him, Bruce placed an open hand at the small of John's back. "Let's blow this snooze-fest," he murmured close to his ear, offering him a classic 'Bruce Wayne' smile as he walked off to make the necessary farewells to remain polite. 

Having no such obligations, John made his way toward the exit, presenting the valet with their ticket to get the car around in time for Bruce to finish. Bruce, of course, had been the one to receive the slip, but John knew it was safer with him. At least, he liked to be the one taking care of it. It didn't hurt that it let him get the keys first, nearly making it all the way behind the wheel this time before Bruce grabbed them out of his hand and gave his hair a tousle.

"Not tonight." Gesturing, he directed John to slide through into the passenger side, a feat truly only possible for someone either smaller than John or at least as agile, which amused him enough to comply. "Nice try, though," Bruce added as he slipped in, the engine flaring to life and starting them away from the curb almost before the driver’s door had closed. 


	3. Two

_______________________ **TWO** _______________________

There wasn’t really a way to hide it, and so Bruce didn’t bother trying. By the time they were three-quarters of the way up the manor’s long driveway, they began to pass the cars that lined each side of the winding gravel trail. With the leather upholstery creaking beside him, Bruce didn’t need to turn his head to discover John’s sudden discomfort.

“Uhm…” was all that came out before Bruce let out a quiet chuckle.

“It doesn’t have to last all night, and you don’t even have to _really_ enjoy yourself, if you don’t want to, but,” pulling into the garage and setting the break, he finally turned to look at John, “Alfred insisted you needed a proper party. For the press,” he finished with a shrug, a familiar, exaggerated excuse.

A flat scoff sounded from the passenger side as John climbed out of the Jag. “For the press. Right.”

With the section of metal garage door sliding down noisily behind them, Bruce led John into the house. The pantry and smaller, personal kitchen were empty, normal looking, as they passed through. Since a true surprise would have been both difficult and unfair to John, there had been no pretense of their guests quieting down just because they had arrived at last. General conversation could be heard down the hallway, and Bruce let John have a moment or two to breathe and prepare himself before opening the door to the ballroom.

Two years of practice had done him well; stepping through the doorway, the mask he’d developed specifically for public events with Bruce slipped over him quickly, seemingly with ease. They were greeted by a loud round of birthday song, and Bruce stepped up to murmur in his ear before moving away to let him take the night’s spotlight.

_“When you’re tapped out, give me a signal and I’ll get us out of it.”_

Alfred had arranged things well, with practice from putting on celebrations for Bruce—they helped him look normal, or at least more so. The chandeliers were lit, music filled just enough of the air to allow for conversation, and there was plenty of food and a variety of drinks for both the younger and more mature guests alike. And, of course, there was a long table piled high with fancy looking gift boxes. John would care for those likely as much as Bruce generally did—and most would inevitably be donated somewhere they were more needed—but they were part of the show on both sides.

As far as Wayne Manor parties went, it went fairly standard. Nearly every last guest paid no attention to either him or John other than making sure to greet them, to pass on their congratulatory phrases. Bruce was feeling exhausted by people and knew that, despite giving no signal for quite some time, John would be even closer.

He lasted through until midnight, the official turn of his year, and the timing for an impressively layered cake to be wheeled out along with another round of singing. John’s smile was convincing, almost dimpling his cheeks, undoubtedly looking full to any who weren’t familiar with the width and depth his face was capable of, the smiles Bruce had seen. It had been some time since those were commonplace, even behind closed doors, though he had witnessed them directed at Alfred. With any luck, Bruce would earn at least one before the night came to its close. 

With candles blown and slices handed out, it wasn’t much longer before John caught Bruce’s eye. Holding his gaze for several seconds even as they both made their conversations across the room from one another, John switched his drink to the opposite hand, swiping the first down across the thigh of his slacks, looking to anyone else as if he had merely been bothered by the condensation. Bruce, however, knew better. _Ah, showtime._

There wasn’t nearly enough alcohol in his system to impair him, but that didn’t stop a quality performance. A glass in each hand, swaying, stumbling, bumping into just the right number of people with just the right amount of force to be a nuisance but not to injure or knock anyone down, Bruce made his way toward the more open floor. The rented staff would forgive the trays he upset, considering their contents had been paid for by him, anyway. Closer and closer he came, all the while belting out an off-key, slurred version of ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’, hearing conversations around him begin to falter as the spectacle increased.

John’s public face held near immediate concern when Bruce got a good look at it, but he could see the spark of amusement in his dark eyes. “Hey,” he called, excusing himself and much more smoothly navigating their crowd, “hey, Bruce…” 

Lips pursed and puffed outward, Bruce pushed back at the extended hand as John approached, his elbow bowing out at him. “No, no-no… I’m good, you’re good, we’re all good.” His words drew out lengthily, stopped only by tipping one of his glasses to drain the liquid. Having swallowed, he turned it upside down, tucking its thin neck against the other in his opposite hand, freeing the first arm to wrap around John’s shoulders, clapping over them. “ _Happy_ birthday, John _Blake_ ,” he began. “Am I right?” followed loudly at the rest of the room, to which it seemed his guests had been convinced.

Letting out a small, nervous-sounding chuckle, John slipped an arm around Bruce’s waist, feigning support. “Alright, Bruce,” he spoke just loudly enough for those nearby to hear, “I think you’ve had enough, okay?” 

Bruce started to dismiss the point, but added a stumble to his feet as John steered him to the side, laughing loudly at the near mishap, draining the last of his booze and settling the glasses haphazardly on the tray being held nearby by one very bewildered waiter. “Two more,” he directed, making a shooing motion towards the larger kitchen with his hand.

“No more,” John cut in, “thank you.” Hefting more of Bruce’s weight, John chuckled again and turned more to the rest of the guests. “Had a bit too much, that’s all…” His tone was perfect, just light enough to gain reassured, comfortable laughs in return from the crowd. “You guys stick around, finish the food; I’m sure he’ll be in better shape tomorrow.” With the favor of the guests who applauded their exit, along with one murmur to the side regarding the relief that there was at least _one_ responsible adult residing at Wayne Manor, John led them to their exit. 

Bruce let him support him through the first corridor and down the next, into a lesser-used drawing room, before standing up straight and smoothing out his jacket. “I think that went well,” he teased.

Closing the doors behind them, John rolled his eyes as he turned to face him. “Hmm… ‘Drunken Billionaire Cuts Party Short for Young Ward’…” he began, hands raised in front as a frame. “How’s that sound? It’ll probably be tomorrow’s headline in the Times.”

“Good,” Bruce replied in all sincerity. Drunken billionaires weren’t suspected of spending their nights as caped vigilantes running through the streets of Gotham—a performance here and there was a necessity, and a benefit. “Now,” he began again, smoothing a few places where the gel in his hair was starting to lose its hold, “would you like your present now, or in the morning?”

Leaning a shoulder against the thick molding framing the doors, John shrugged, letting out a dismissive sound. “Who needs presents? I don’t care.” Without missing a single beat, he scoffed, holding out his hand and bending his fingers towards himself. “Fuck that, gimme it now, damnit.” There it was, the dimpled grin, and seeing it brought a sincere smile to Bruce’s face, in turn.

Head tilted and brows raised in acquiescence, Bruce reached a hand inside his suit jacket, pulling an envelope out of its inner pocket, placing it in John’s outstretched hand.

“I didn’t think it’d actually… fit…” Dark eyebrows rose, and John pushed off from the wall, turning the envelope over in his hands. There weren’t any markings on the outside, save for the scrawl of his name in the center of the front. “What’d you get me, a sappy letter?” His tone was sarcastic, but curiosity rose behind it.

“You know, I’ve heard,” Bruce replied, carefully working his bowtie lose to set aside, “that the best way to find out what’s inside of those things is to,” he gestured with a roll of his hand, “actually open them.”

“Ha-ha,” John over-pronounced. 

Staying quiet, Bruce watched as he opened the envelope, pulling out the sheets of paper inside. They were Wayne Enterprises letterhead, he knew that’d be seen immediately, and he waited as John pored over their contents as they were unfolded, knowing questions would follow soon after. Tucking his hands into his pants pockets, he settled his feet.

The sheets were shuffled several times in relative silence as John read through their information. His brow steadily drew up in the middle, wrinkling in confusion. “What… Is this money?” Brown eyes flicked up at last, meeting Bruce’s in question. “You run out of ideas and decide to give me money?”

“Not money,” Bruce corrected, nodding his head at the papers. “Shares. There are enough shares of Wayne Enterprises there that, if you wanted to, if you needed to, you could sell them and give yourself a good head start on a life wherever you wanted. Or, you can sit on them, let them appreciate as they will, and have a nice little chunk of the company.”

The brows remained drawn taut. “I don’t get how that’s _not_ money.”

Stepping closer, Bruce tucked the papers back in order into the envelope, setting it on a small mahogany table behind John. “It _is_ money, but not for the sake of money.” Holding up a hand to forestall the quick question bubbling to John’s lips, he continued. “It’s security. I want you here, and you want to be here, _so far_ ,” he explained, “but you’re eighteen now. Legally, you don’t need to be watched over, or kept by anyone. And if you decided you didn’t want to be here anymore, well, I want to be sure you’ve got what you need to stand on your own two feet. A sports car is great, but it’s hard to live in.”

There was more to the speech, more convincing and explaining, but Bruce was cut off by a near crushing embrace that he swiftly returned. He could feel the other’s Adam’s apple bob against the side of his neck as he swallowed, slowly. “Thank you,” sounded out muffled, thickly, against the collar of Bruce’s suit. 

“You’re welcome,” he replied, patting John’s back. “They’re yours, and they’re yours without strings. I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re stuck here.”

Stepping back, John shook his head. “I don’t. I’m grateful, Bruce, for everything you’ve done for me. I’m lucky, more than I can even express. But it’s not just… financial things, keeping me here.”

One corner of Bruce’s mouth ticked up. “Tools and street-cleaning training don’t hurt, I assume.”

Dark locks fell forward over John’s brow as he shook his head. “Not just that, either. You… You mean a lot to me. _You_ , Bruce. Not as Bruce _Wayne_ , not as the Batman, but as _Bruce_.” It was innocent, maybe, but John’s hand warmed the skin of Bruce’s arm as he clasped it, giving a squeeze. 

“Happy birthday, John,” he spoke quietly, leaning forward to press a brief, chaste kiss to his forehead. He’d naturally given thought to the day, to the arguments, the waiting he’d insisted on, but a legal number didn’t automatically mean John wanted him, now. The subject had been left behind, and if Bruce had missed his chance, then it wasn’t what was meant for them. There was true care for John in his heart, not limited to sex.

John’s simple, quiet words broke his train of thought, giving him pause. “Do you still want me?”


	4. Three

_______________________ **THREE** _______________________

In truth, it was as inevitable and unavoidable as the day that it hinged on; they would simply _have_ to have the conversation, eventually. When Bruce had downed several glasses of champagne in the city, and then at least two more at home, John had decided to wait it out, to see how sober he truly was. Even then, part of him wanted to see if the other man would be the first to broach the subject, or if he’d wait, as well. 

He was sober, the difference was easy enough to tell. His gift had been more than thoughtful, it had been a gift of love, and unconditional at that. It had John thinking that maybe it had been better this way, after all, to know that their relationship wasn’t built on fucking around, but he honestly believed it would have developed the same way, regardless. And so he made his case, expressed his feelings, and waited. 

Forehead. He’d gotten a forehead kiss, and while at once both amusing and endearing, it had left him still wondering where the other man stood. It was almost as if he could see the man thinking, see the possibilities running through his mind in the short space of silence. 

“Do you still want me?” he asked quietly, short and to the point, eyes fixed on the hazel pair across from them.

All movement in Bruce’s frame froze for a moment, and the shift of his gaze back to meet John’s was slow, deliberate, and controlled; he supposed that was only fair. “Do _you_ still want _me_?” 

That, however, was completely _un_ fair. “Answering a question with another question is pretty rude,” John replied, keeping his tone as even as his gaze, his expression. Too much uncertainty lay in that subject to leave it to speculation. In the interest of offering _something_ , he took a step forward, closing the distance between them to where he could nearly feel the puffs of Bruce’s breath against his chin.

“I suppose it is, isn’t it,” Bruce murmured, raising a hand to run its fingers through the hair behind John’s ear. 

“I’m not making the first move,” John told him, his tone blunt, his body still.

With a quietly spoken ‘fair enough’ meeting John’s ears, Bruce leaned forward, eyes on John’s until the moment their mouths met. They could have been after, too, but John’s closed, his arms rising around Bruce’s shoulders to keep him close as he kissed him back. Though it wasn’t as if he’d been completely abstinent since walking away from Bruce’s lap, he’d definitely missed the feel of him. John had slept with a few older guys before, was familiar with the differences in experience, often in confidence, but that wasn’t what drew him to Bruce’s kisses. Whatever it was inside of each of them that was the same, whatever mirrored, it was present when they touched. He could feel it, like they were already connected without even trying. Not only did it make the feeling more intense, it made kissing him, holding him, feel like coming home.

For those reasons, he stopped, pulling back though his arms stayed draped over the other’s shoulders. “Are you going to stop?” he asked in answer to the questioning noise in Bruce’s throat, repeating the question when it was met only with a wrinkled brow. “Because if you are,” he continued, head tilted enough to catch his eyes again, “we’re not starting this. I’m not doing that again.”

“No, no, John,” Bruce quickly assured, resting his forehead against John’s. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Good,” he followed with a firm kiss. “I don’t want you to stop. I want you to _fuck_ me.” Edging forward until their torsos brushed against each other, he asked, “Are you going to fuck me?” 

Bruce gave him a look under his brows, and John returned it with a challenging stare of his own. “Yes.”

Hands travelling down the man’s hips, one set of nails dug into the swell of Bruce’s ass. “Yes _what_?”

Though he twitched, a small smile eased over Bruce’s face. “Yes, I’m going to fuck you, John.” One arm hooked around John’s waist, Bruce pulled him flush against him, recovering his lips. Eagerly returning the kiss once more, John worked the suit jacket off of Bruce’s shoulders, tugging his shirt tails out of the waist of his trousers once the heavier outer material hit the floor. “Do you want to go upstairs,” Bruce asked on a pause to breathe, “or stay?”

Looking around for a moment, completely ignoring the fact that some of their guests might well still be in the ballroom not even the length of the house away, his hands already warming themselves against Bruce’s bare back beneath his shirt, John hummed in thought. “You ever mess around in here?” he asked into Bruce’s ear, the other man’s lips having moved to lay a path along John’s neck. Keeping his mouth occupied, Bruce only offered a negative sound that vibrated against John’s skin. “Good. Then we’ll stay here.” Reaching behind, he fumbled only a little until he found the latch above the doorknob, locking it. 

In moments, John’s jacket was worked off, his tie joining Bruce’s on the floor, shirts untucked. After unbuttoning Bruce’s, John tugged his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside once he’d worked the cuffs open, inside-out. With a smirk stretching into his cheek, he took hold of Bruce’s hands, placing them firmly onto his ass as he leaned to claim a deeper kiss from the older man. Satisfied with the grip he earned, waiting just until Bruce walked them backward with John’s back to the wall’s built-in bookshelf, John grinned and bit down on Bruce’s lower lip. Distracted, he was easier to turn, his own back against the shelves instead of John’s.

Before he could finish a breathed out question, John sank to his knees in front of him, reaching quickly for the fastening of his pants. Bruce started to speak, a protest even before the words were out, but John made sure to pinch his skin lightly as he opened and dropped the man’s pants. “Uh-uh, I’ve waited long enough. Startin’ how I want.” 

For his part, Bruce didn’t try protesting again. Settling his shoulders against the shelves, he only lightly sifted his fingers through John’s hair as he ran his lips over the man’s length. Fingers cupping to keep the shaft steady, he licked his lips and placed a wet kiss to its base, flicking his eyes upward as he drew back. Bruce’s eyes were on him, then, trained sharply, his breathing even, so far, but John endeavored to fix that. With a thumb hooked around the underside of his shaft, maneuvering it vertical, he winked up at Bruce. First nudging his nose against the veins that ran its length, he kissed his way from the base toward the tip, flattening his tongue to lick firmly enough to dampen Bruce’s stomach, behind it, as well. 

Keeping him pinned, John mouthed at the tip of his cock, the end of his tongue teasing at the crease beneath its head. Bruce’s breaths had gotten deeper, a little more noisy, and they urged John on as much as the fingers now firmly grasping at his hair, tugging lightly at its roots when he moved his head. When he finally slipped the tip of Bruce’s cock into his mouth, closing his lips around it, a breathy moan rewarded him. “There we go,” he breathed out, lips remaining against his skin. 

Satisfied he had the man’s full attention as well as his reactions, John slid his mouth over his cock, sliding it past his tongue and giving it a firm suck. He left his hands bracketing Bruce’s hips to keep him back, thumbs rubbing over his skin, neck bobbing so he worked the man’s cock deeper into his mouth, bumping against the back of his throat before he drew back carefully to breathe. 

“John,” Bruce breathed out above him, both hands shifting along his neck, cradling his head. His weight shifted between his feet, and John wondered for a moment if he would start rocking his hips forward, something he could handle but needed to prepare for, but he didn’t. Instead, he drew John’s head back, fingertips under his jaw to tilt his face up. “That feels good, it does, but how about we save the rest of it for another time?”

“What,” he asked cheekily, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, “can’t go more than once? You’re not _that_ far past your prime, are you?”

Mouth forming a tight line for a moment, Bruce dragged him up by his shoulders, then reached to grasp his ass with both hands, hauling him up off the floor. Humming appreciatively, John shifted his legs to hook around Bruce’s sides. “How old do you think I _am_?” Bruce asked, craning his neck up to kiss him.

Fingers threading into Bruce’s hair and separating the gel-smoothed strands, ruffling it up, John broke the kiss after enjoying it for several more moments. "Which piece of furniture in here is your least favorite?"

Bruce tilted his head to the side, clearly thrown off by the question, but willing to humor him at least for the moment. "I don't think I've actually thought about that... why?"

Leaning down to press a firm kiss over Bruce's mouth, ending in a playful bite at his lower lip, John chuckled slightly. "Because we're undoubtedly gonna end up ruining the upholstery, so it's better to know now and choose wisely."

He laughed, but shook his head. “We should probably sneak upstairs to the bedroom,” Bruce began. “Better prepared up there, and more comfortable.” 

“Oh, okay, yeah, walk through the hall with your dick out and your hands on my ass…” John grinned. “I’m tempted to say do it, but I think you might give Alfred a heart attack with that one. Besides,” he continued when Bruce tried to clarify, rolling his eyes, “it’s not like I’m not prepared right here, already, anyways.” At the raised eyebrows from Bruce, John steadied himself, reaching into the pocket of his pants and pulling out two tear-open packets of lubricant and a strip of condoms. 

Looking them over, Bruce hummed. “I see… You that confident we’d get to it tonight, or were you determined to have a birthday fuck either way?” At the least, John couldn’t detect judgment in the man’s voice, even at the last of his question.

“Hoping,” John replied, looking over his shoulder. “That little couch thing… that’s a good spot, don’t you think?” Nodding his head in the direction of the middle of the room, he tugged at Bruce’s shirt collar, smirking. “Let’s ruin that one.”

It didn’t take much convincing, after all. As John readily argued, it wasn’t as if Bruce couldn’t easily replace any piece of furniture in the mansion, if he really liked the fancy little couch. He was carried over and dumped onto it rather unceremoniously, only gaining a chuckle from him as he set the packets to the side, starting to work his pants off. Bruce stopped him, leaning over the edge of the couch to shoo his hands away, unbuttoning the material himself, dragging it slowly over John’s hips. For his part, he lifted his bottom off the cushion to help slide them more easily. When they were off, Bruce stepped back to kick his own pants off, John taking a moment to wrap his hand around himself, giving a reassuring stroke to his dick; it had been getting hard since they’d first started talking.

Tossing the strip of condoms at Bruce, who admirably caught them up with no trouble, John grabbed a packet of lube, tearing it open with his teeth. “You ready,” he challenged, “or you need more fluffing?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” Bruce threw back, and that was the end of conversation between them for the moment. While Bruce carefully tore open one of his own packets, deftly rolling the latex over his cock, John squeezed the lube onto his fingers, reaching to rub it over his hole. Shifting on the cushion to get more comfortable, he eased one finger in, sighing out a breath as he added another. Even before he looked up to check, he could tell the other man’s eyes were on him, watching, waiting until he was ready. 

When he was, he slipped his fingers out, motioning Bruce forward with them, taking hold of his cock once it was close enough to spend the rest of the slick on his fingers. Leaning over him, Bruce dipped down to catch him up in a deep kiss. John eagerly slid his tongue along Bruce’s, letting his hips be shifted on the cushion as Bruce joined him just enough to lift John’s leg and press close. He could feel the man’s shaft nudge between his thighs, against the cheeks of his ass, and he spread his legs to help, fingers winding into his ruined hair. 

The kiss lasted, even as Bruce bowed his back to edge closer, lining the head of his cock up with John’s entrance, pressing against the pucker of it. Humming through his nose, John hooked his outside leg around Bruce’s back, bending it enough to pull him closer, encouraging. It was enough, and John let out a gasp as he was entered, tipping his head back. It was immediately chased by Bruce, his mouth still covering John’s as he pressed forward, inching his way slowly, steadily, into John’s ass, giving its muscles just enough time to adjust before easing further in. Letting out a breath through his nose, John relaxed, letting him in, waiting until he could feel Bruce’s stomach press down against his own before he tugged at the man’s hair. 

With a chuckle, Bruce bit down lightly on John’s tongue, and any pretense of easing into things was gone. Both legs now cinched around Bruce’s torso, John pulled his hips upward, grinding his ass on Bruce’s cock. Groaning out into John’s mouth, Bruce wasted no time in thrusting into him, driving the breath from John’s lungs. He smirked against it, exhaling at each impact, digging his nails into Bruce’s scalp. Kiss broken, Bruce’s lips found his neck, running over his skin, teeth scraping the tendons. Letting him work for a little while, John set one of his feet down, using it to brace against the floor as he twisted, catching Bruce enough by surprise that he was able to roll them over, leaving Bruce on his back and John seated firmly over his cock.

The surprise on the man’s face was well worth his effort. Not skipping a beat, John rocked his hips back, drawing a moan from beneath him as he set a slow pace at first, braced against the man’s shoulders. It was more work for him, this way, but it felt so good to drag himself along the other man’s shaft, to control the rhythm, the burn building in his thighs from tensing and releasing. After a few moments, Bruce’s hands spread over John’s hips, grasping them firmly but not tugging or pushing. 

Leaning forward, he sucked his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, rolling his back and hips so that his own dick ground against Bruce’s stomach, between both of theirs as he bent down to kiss him greedily. It was returned, a hand tangling up in his hair, cradling his scalp. John didn’t need words to know when the man got close to shooting off—he could hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way he leaned up into their kiss, the tightening of his hands and the rise of his hips to meet the draw of John’s. When he came, his hips stuttered still, the hold on John’s hip tightening nearly painfully, and their kiss was broken in favor of a guttural growl. With a smirk stretching his lips, John rocked more slowly, waiting until it seemed Bruce had finished before sitting up straight.

“My turn,” he winked, taking hold of his own dick. With a breathless Bruce watching closely, John pumped his hand along his length, squeezing just how he needed, at a rhythm that drew him to the edge quickly, the stretch in his ass only helping to send him over on sensation. Breathing out a moan that echoed slightly in the open room, John felt his orgasm shock through him, and he painted Bruce’s chest and stomach with heated splashes of come. “Perfect,” he sighed.

John nearly yelped in surprise as he was yanked down into a fierce kiss, tasting a hint of copper on his tongue from teeth being unkind to his lip. When he was released, Bruce offered an unspoken apology in the form of licking gently at the cut. “All that,” he mused, “and the couch is probably just fine.”

A dark eyebrow rising, John peered down at Bruce, then over the length of the couch. “We’ll see how it stands when we’re _done_ ,” he corrected, drawing himself up and off of Bruce’s cock only to turn and grab the next condom on the strip, tearing it open. “And we’re _not_ done.”

Bruce chuckled, sitting up with a groan. “Good.”


	5. Four

_______________________ **FOUR** _______________________

"So,” John teased, squeezing out the last of the lubricant from the packet, “you last longer the second time around?"

Discarding the used condom onto the floor for the moment, making a mental note to clean it up before Alfred got to the room, Bruce gave him a look. With a quick grab, he took the condom packet, tossing the foil onto the floor and clearing the mess from his dick with the tail of his shirt—not having discarded it just yet—before rolling the clean one on.

"Ah, don't worry,” John continued, a dimple deepening into one cheek as he smirked, “most guys do." He let out an ‘Ahh!’ of a yelp as he was tackled to the floor by Bruce, their bodies landing with an undignified thump. "This isn't the _couch_." John accused.

Stretching over him, Bruce nodded in confirmation. "No, this isn't the _couch_." Without warning, he flipped John onto his stomach, laying out over him, grinding his hips down, sending his cock to nestle down between the tight sides of his ass. “Reach back,” he directed, “get it slick.” John had taken charge of the first round, and while that had been fine, great even, Bruce intended to turn the tables, so to speak.

Though grunting in mock-protest, John adjusted his weight beneath Bruce, reaching his hand back as Bruce lifted enough to give him space and swiped his slicked-up fingers over the latex. Bruce rocked his hips forward, running his length through the grasp of John’s fingers. “I’m not jerking you off from this angle,” John’s amused voice piped up from below him.

Laughing lightly, Bruce patted John’s arm, releasing him from his duty so he could settle his position better. Satisfied he was comfortable enough, Bruce spread him further, aiming and easing back inside. A groan of satisfaction left him, working his shaft forward, sinking inch by inch into the hot, welcoming tightness of John’s ass. The hardwood was cold beneath his knees, and no doubt the same on the entire front of John’s body, over which he laid his own, pressing the younger man down against the floor as be began to work his own hips, thrusting deeply and firmly into him. It was a good angle, letting him use his weight as leverage, and he enjoyed the sounds that emanated from beneath him—not only pleasured sounds from John, but the quieter squeaking sounds as his skin was here and there dragged against the panels of the floor. 

“Should’a aimed a few feet—unn—to the right,” John grunted out, turning his head to the side. “We would’ve landed on that carpet…” he let out a pleased moan as Bruce rolled his hips just-so, “…could’ve ruined _that_.”

His own breath steadily becoming labored with the effort and rebuilding pressure in his groin, Bruce let out a short laugh. “If I had,” he reasoned, “you would be gaining some impressive rug-burn on your dick.” Eyeing the carpet, an expensive floor piece but nothing of grandiose origin, Bruce was tempted. “Unless that’s what you _wanted_ …” he drew out, its end punctuated by a few particularly spirited drives downward.

Grazing his teeth across the back of John’s neck and shoulders, Bruce continued at that angle for a while longer before rising up just enough to drag him to his knees, as well. Readjusting, he took firm hold of the more slender hips in front of him and tugged in time with his own forward motions, the sound of their skin harshly meeting echoing in the open room. Widening his knees, he rammed into him harder, faster, until he could feel the pressure building, coiling, his balls tightening. When John tried reaching to take hold of himself, Bruce batted his hand away.

“No… not yet,” he directed, his voice husky with need. John listened for the moment, and it wasn’t long before Bruce’s motions were stuttering, less in rhythm, and he yanked John’s hips back harshly as he found his release, shuddering. Remaining still for a few moments, he pulled back slowly, patting John’s side to encourage him to turn over. 

Turning on his side, drawing a leg up and over so he was below Bruce once more, John wiggled against the floor to get comfortable. “So how am I finishing?” he asked, brows raised. In answer, Bruce took hold of the other’s cock, giving it a few firm strokes before bending down to take it into his mouth. “Oh… Okay, that’s a solid pla-a-an,” John agreed, the last word breaking while Bruce sucked firmly. A moan took over, two sets of fingers threading into Bruce’s hair, against his scalp. He could feel nails tap down the lower he worked, until his nose brushed John’s stomach, his lips at the base of his shaft, his tongue flattened with the tip of John’s cock dipping into his throat. “Fuck…”

Though they didn’t hold him down, John’s hands remained tight in their hold on Bruce’s head, even as it bobbed along his cock. One of Bruce’s rose to hold him steady, cinching around the base of him and stroking in tandem with his mouth, drawing noisy breaths from above him. It didn’t take too long before jerky movements began to drive John’s length upward, Bruce drawing off of him to stroke at him faster, leaving only the tip in his mouth, teasing his tongue along its slit. With a shuddery breath and a beautiful curse, John shot off onto Bruce’s tongue, Bruce swallowing before licking him clean. 

Laying his head back, having finally released his hold on Bruce’s head and tucking one arm behind his own, John sighed. “Okay… I’m done.”

Chuckling, Bruce patted his stomach, leaning over him to steal a kiss before standing and stretching out his back. About to speak, he paused as a to-the-side stretching turn had something catching his eye. Aware of the curious look on John’s face as he sat up, Bruce stepped over to the heavy oak door they’d locked, bending to pluck a small envelope from just inside it. Both of their names had been scrawled neatly in the center—Alfred’s handwriting. Opening it, Bruce laughed, and though knowing it would turn his wide-angled ears crimson, with even his own cheeks slightly pinked, tossed it expertly onto John’s lap as he turned the lock and latch.

“…You realize you’re naked, still, right?”

“My house,” he shrugged, though he checked the hall with the door open just a crack before opening it further. No need to repay his old friend’s kind gesture with an unnecessary view. Outside the door sat a silver serving tray with two water bottles and a bowl of mixed fruit cubes. The note had simply said for them to enjoy once they’d finished, and to sleep well, that he’d see them in the morning.

True to form, once Bruce had retrieved the tray, closing and re-locking the door, he turned to spot the younger man reading the note, his ears flushed pinker than the surrounding skin. Embarrassment or none, the two finished every scrap they’d been served before cleaning up the room.

\-----

Though they eventually moved to his bedroom, Bruce couldn’t sleep. He lay with John, pleased to wrap an arm over his form as he slowly eased into slumber. It had been a long time since he had spent the whole night with anyone, and the people he’d brought back to the manor for sex had usually been led to spare rooms, rather than the personal space of his own. There was little in the room itself that was sentimental, but the space where he slept was his alone, and it felt best to retain that solitude. With John, however, it felt different.

Typically, if he found himself awake in the night, he made his way down to the cave or out into the streets, but it seemed wrong not to keep him company on his birthday. At least, that’s what he told himself as he gently pulled John’s body closer, his back against Bruce’s chest as he listened to his breathing even out into the quiet rhythm of sleep. They shared their troubles with dreams, with insomnia, and a smile found his lips at the knowledge that he likely had a hand in helping John find a still and peaceful rest. 

It wasn’t until the following night that he found himself back into suit. The crime rate in Gotham wasn’t so much _down_ as it was… shifted. There were always the petty perpetrators, infractions born from people being stupid or desperate or both, but there were fewer murders, fewer heists, and fewer major mob cases in the last two years than Gotham had seen in decades. 

It was working. The city’s underbelly was afraid, and they showed it.

Even with less noise, there was work to be done. The tools of the Bat were beneficial in other aspects of Bruce Wayne’s life and work, having helped keep Wayne Enterprises cleaner, more effective, in the time he’d been back. Algren had been only one of many who had sought to use someone else’s power for their own gain. And though the Bat’s initial vetting process had been interrupted by more pressing personal matters, there had been enough to keep Bruce from throwing his company in with a harmful lot. In the end, John had been able to help, gathering intel from observations in the Narrows, from those on the fringes of Falcone’s operations.

Carmine Falcone, for his part, was no longer personally, directly involved in the mob activity; through their actions, able to work outside the law’s constrictions, the Bat and John—who had come to call himself the Nightwing, when he was out—had practically gift-wrapped the famed mobster and handed him over to Gotham’s police. For over a year, he had been sitting in Blackgate Prison, though his family’s influence remained. Other, younger members of the Falcone family had taken over in his stead, particularly his niece, Giovanna. She was young, yet, but from all reports and observations, still a force to be reckoned with.

Most recently, street-living kids had been disappearing from their haunts, from the places they were known to gather. Gotham had no shortage of down-luck residents, nor places in which to hide them, but the key was _why_. The timeline coincided with Giovanna’s takeover, the pattern they were now following. John had noticed long before Gotham PD had picked up on a difference—fewer graffiti artists, emptier alleys at dusk—the first few having been boys he’d kept in contact with from his time at the orphanage. The Nightwing had begun systematically mapping the city and its orphans, its abandoned, and keeping a current count. Both Bruce and the Bat knew his focus was split, however, that though the men he’d initially been tracking had disappeared from activity before he could deal with them, he would not give up so easily. 

Aside from the Falcone empire, the Maroni family, in particular its head, Sal, kept an active presence in the city. Between the two, nearly all of Gotham’s officials had been paid off at some point or another, some doubly, or retained permanently. There were a few that the Bat had vetted, that could be trusted, but most weren’t in a position of power. One, a sergeant, had passed his initial tests. Years ago, he had been at the station when Bruce had been brought in the night his parents had been killed. Gordon. 

The Bat had established a connection with him early on, testing his reactions, gauging his involvement with the mob. He was clean, and one of the few eager to help truly clean up the city’s streets. It was Gordon who had devised a sign atop Gotham Central, casting a stylized shadow onto the night’s cloud ceiling. It wasn’t truly a call, weather-permitting was too intermittent for that sort of use and he kept a close eye tuned in anyway, but it was part of the theatrics, the symbolism that the Bat hoped to create, to _be_. 

To encourage it, the Bat at times answered, touching down on the roof of the building to hear the man out. Most of the time, it was an update on movement within the city, an exchange of information so that they both could do their work more easily. Gordon was clean, but he knew the restrictions with which his position operated. The Bat, on the contrary, could move outside of those rules, and had gained enough of Gordon’s trust in the process. When the police had reached their edge, blocked either by the necessary regulations, by fear, or by mob money and its consequences, there was room, yet, for him to step in. On those more rare occasions, Gordon presented him with something very specific, and when the Bat approached him that night, the sergeant was not empty handed.


	6. Five

_______________________ **FIVE** _______________________

In addition to the numerous safety measures hidden around the mansion, John had been given his own private safe within his room. Mostly, it held his legal paperwork—birth certificate, identifying documents, files from St. Swithin’s and the court orders relating to Bruce’s guardianship—but now it housed his birthday present. At least, it housed one of them. The other was slightly larger in hand, though its spirit less tangible. 

If it had been left up to him, they never would have bothered, but John had finished his diploma program through private tutors a few months prior to turning eighteen. More than a few debates-turned-arguments had echoed in the manor’s halls over the subject, with Bruce insisting it was necessary. The man placed a certain amount of importance on what he called ‘formal education,’ and in addition to that, his argument for the show of it was strong. If Bruce Wayne took in a teenager and wasn’t seen bothering to educate him, it wouldn’t do well for his image. Aside from that, Children and Youth visited at regular intervals to check on them both, and they had certain standards by which Bruce was expected to abide. 

Finished with the required schooling, he’d been giving more thought to furthering it, now that he had the means. The thoughts weren’t wholly new, but had been only hopes, before, as uncertain as anything else in his life. If he hadn’t moved in with Bruce, but had kept on the program for the foundation’s support, he knew he would have been guided into trying for a job or community college. Now, though, he had more options, and he’d been looking into programs at Gotham’s police academy. 

It was ironic, maybe, to have been playing at vigilante for nearly two years and then attempt to begin a career in law enforcement, but in John’s mind both served the same purpose. Occupying both sides also offered him the unique position of being able to work a given case from more angles. There had certainly been times when simply handing a criminal to the cops hadn’t finished the job. Evidence wasn’t always present, and witnesses, though made bolder by a contained threat, weren’t always rushing to the precincts to talk to uniforms and give the necessary statements to back up the existing claims. Or those uniforms were on the take by the same people responsible for the street action they were reporting. Many of those more-innocents entrenched in the city’s underbelly trusted masks more than they trusted badges. If John could be both… he could be ultimately efficient.

He had kept the idea to himself, for quite a while, worried over how his newly acquired family would react, until a conversation with Alfred, who’d found him looking at the card Bertie Mayer had given him at the charity event before his birthday party. 

“I wasn’t really considering it,” he defended lightly, tapping the card against his palm as he leaned against the pantry’s countertop. There were many places in the mansion to think, but there was something in the smaller room, the positioning of the shelves, the softer, more familiar light that eased through its windows, that made it feel more comfortable. At the very least, it was the room in the house that felt the least _rich_. Bruce’s butler often found him there, finding it a calming space, himself. Afternoons often saw the two of them talking, especially if Bruce either slept _way_ in or was making his scheduled show in the city. Of course, if Fox could be believed—and he generally could—that often included a cross between the two, during which he could be found ‘sleeping in’ in the conference room during board meetings. Sometimes he faked it, but others he was catching up for late nights spent in the city streets.

Alfred lifted a greyed eyebrow in question, but then merely handed John a mug of steaming tea. The drink had been wholly unfamiliar to him prior to being taken in by Bruce, but he was coming to enjoy it, especially shared with the older man. He was even almost coming to prefer it to hot cocoa. Almost.

Taking the mug and setting the card down, John breathed out a chuckle. “Alright, I guess I _was_ considering it, in a way. I was trying to imagine it, you know? Me, doing anything business-world related.”

“And how did that play out in your head, might I ask?” Alfred had a way of prying in gentler ways that made a person feel like it was their idea to tell him what he asked about first.

Swallowing, letting the tea’s heat settle in his stomach, John shook his head. “It’s not a fit,” he answered with a small, rueful smile.

Leaning against an opposite counter, hands cradling his own mug, Alfred tilted his head forward. “And you… have thoughts on what _does_ fit, do you?”

“Yeah, actually. I, uh, I’ve been thinking about police academy.” Not looking up, he set the mug down, picking under his nails. Even after John paused, Alfred stayed quiet, listening. “I still believe in it… he does a lot, _we_ , we do a lot, but there’s more to it, and we’ve already needed to use the cops a lot, they’re necessary, but most of them are corrupt. We need more who can really _help_.”

“And you think that’s you?”

“Yeah, I do. Gordon’s good, but there’s not enough of him; he needs help turning things around from the inside. And someone legal’s gotta watch out for the kids that end up on the streets, because there sure as hell isn’t anyone on the force right now who seems to give a shit, but a lot of them know me, they could trust me, maybe.” Looking up, he spotted a smile on the older man’s face. “What?”

Holding up a finger, Alfred uttered a ‘wait here’ as he strode out of the room. When he returned, he was holding a box, wrapped in package paper and tied with twine. With it set on the counter near John, he gestured to it. “For your birthday, John.” It had taken quite a while to convince him that ‘Master Blake’ wasn’t a necessary or desired title. Bruce owned the house, and his money had the butler, not John, and the addition felt way too impersonal for someone who’d come to feel like family. Even if Bruce and Alfred were themselves more like family, John didn’t have the same precedent.

“What is it?” he asked, moving his tea out of the way so he could get at the box.

“I believe that is generally the purpose of _opening_ a gift, young sir.” Bruce definitely got his snark from _somewhere_.

Rolling his eyes, John tugged at the end of the string, loosening the knot and sliding the rest of the twine off of the box. They probably could have saved the paper, that’s what the rule had been when he’d been a small child—wrapping paper was a luxury his parents wouldn’t waste—but Alfred had encouraged him the previous year that if there was paper over a gift, he should rip it; that’s how it was done. That in mind, he found a corner and tore across the top of the box, sliding the shreds to the side as he popped the cardboard’s top off. Beneath a layer of tissue paper sat a black leather messenger bag. 

Fingers running over the smooth material, John shook his head. “Alfred, this is… this is really nice, but—”

“No buts,” he was cut off, Alfred lifting the bag out of the box and placing it in John’s hold. It was definitely heavier than he expected, and clearly not empty. “Give it an open, now.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, he obeyed, unbuckling the straps that secured the front flap. Reaching inside, he took hold of the stacked items, carefully sliding the pile out onto the counter. “…School supplies?” he asked, spotting the ballpoints, notepads and tape recorder on top. Below those, however, were what appeared to be textbooks on criminal justice. He grew quiet as he pulled a course catalog brochure out from one of the books, tucked inside a list of requirements for Gotham City Police Department’s academy. After a moment, he spoke up, brow furrowed, “How…?”

A wrinkled hand clapped his shoulder, and the man chuckled. “You may only have just spoken of it, but I know it has been on your mind for quite some time. Now,” he continued, setting the brochure and list on top of the books, “this is not set in stone, just because I gave them to you. It’s your choice, if you’d just as well like to use this bag to carry anything else you see fit. Or nothing at all.”

Almost before the man had finished speaking, John flung his arms around his sweater-vested neck, holding tightly. “Thank you, Alfred. It’s perfect, really.”

“You’re quite welcome, Master Blake.” When John complained, Alfred waved it off. “Just this once; makes me feel better. Now you finish that tea, before the whole kettle gets cold.” 

They talked for a while longer, about his options and his thoughts. The topics changed more than a few times, touching on memories of past birthdays, though the majority had been spent at the orphanage. There were still little things he remembered from when he was small, and Alfred’s unassuming manner made it feel easier to talk about, less painful to recall. 

He hadn’t crossed paths with Bruce since early that morning, having woken in time for Bruce to share his appreciation for the peaceful rest he’d gotten before the other man had gotten up. They didn’t talk about it, but John could tell he hadn’t slept at all, even though he was pretty sure he hadn’t left the bed while John slept. They also didn’t discuss going out that night, but the itch in Bruce’s movements was clear enough. The Bat would definitely find himself in the streets come nightfall, and there seemed little reason John shouldn’t let the Nightwing follow suit—literally.

No cape. Capes were dramatic, theatrical, and made for big, showy entrances. Capes were for the Batman, and John was _not_ the Batman. John's look catered to his habits. He had a similar routine of setting out from the cave exit well into the night—though on a bike as opposed to Bruce’s tank-like ride, as he preferred to mix into Gotham's streets, at first.

This was his city; though it was Bruce's, as well, and though the Bat claimed it, John felt at home in its streets and alleys in a way he knew neither of the other two ever could. Before going about defending it, clearing it of its parasites, he reminded himself—nightly—what it was he was protecting. Sporting a leather jacket zipped to cover the distinct pattern on his suit, a helmet on his head as much for anonymity as for safety, John made his way from the Palisades into the outskirts of the city, toward Gotham’s heart. Uptown interested him much less than the rest, but he scouted it all the same. The financial district stood bright even in the latest hours, though most of its work had finished shortly after the sun went down, at least on the face of it. 

At length, he pulled up to a safe spot to hide the bike between a pair of dumpsters. Covering it just right kept it out of prying eyes, at least long enough for him to do what he needed. He could ride up on it to get to the kids he planned on talking with, but if he’d learned anything from following the Bat’s example, it was that a stealthy entrance was a valuable thing. Beyond that, there were a few kids that weren’t quite as eager to chat when he came around. Maybe he wasn’t the Bat, but they were smart enough to know that he was connected to him, that talking to him had the same outcome. 

He tried for Tarek, first. While many of the kids who made alleys and dead-ends their home stuck together in groups, pooling resources and keeping each other safer, some still preferred to stay alone, and Tarek was one of them. To be fair, the kid had picked out a good spot for it, in one of the unfinished housing projects just outside the Narrows. Tarek wasn’t much younger than John, nearing sixteen, and he had made it a point to know what went on in the surrounding neighborhoods, despite keeping himself separate. Though John had been able to talk with him in-person before leaving Saint Swithin’s, it was more difficult behind a mask—he would have gone as himself, but tying his actual civilian identity into criminal investigations right then was hazardous. It was another argument in favor of the police academy.

Making his way across the nearby rooftops, John came to the top ladder of the fire escape along the complex, but stopped there. Living alone in Gotham—whether in a loft, studio, tenement, or less conventional locations—came with the cost of security, and his mark was very good at keeping unwanted visitors out. Trip wires were set up along the stairway, so John secured a line to the top of the ladder, rappelling down the alley-side of the building. Even though this was _down_ and not _up_ the rope, John could still hear the laugh he’d earned from Bruce for falling on his ass, every time he had to work with ropes.

From dealing with him before, John knew Tarek had his main setup on the fourth floor, just two below the roofline. Windows were trouble, too, as he was well aware that the kid had at least once rigged jumper cables and a car battery connected to the metal sliders. So instead, he freed one of his truncheons from its place on his back, tapping it on the glass in the rhythm he’d used before to get the other boy’s attention.

It took a handful of repetitions, but the window finally slid open. “What do _you_ want?” sounded from within, no owner to the voice yet in view.

“I just want to talk, Tarek,” John replied, his own voice not lowered or graveled quite like the Bat changed Bruce’s, but different, more even, more forceful. Attention gained, he made a show of snapping the truncheon back into its hooks. “More kids are gone, and we know you see more than anyone.”

“Yeah, and there it is,” Tarek replied from the dark interior, his words more spat than spoken, “that _‘we’_ shit. I know you got half this city fooled, but you and that Batman are _trouble_ , not _help_.” 

Clipping his line to his belt to secure him where he hung, John peered through the window even though he couldn’t see the kid yet. “What’s _trouble_ is what’s going on out there,” he argued, making a show of pointing out toward the street. “We know the Falcone family is involved, and we know kids keep disappearing, and we _also_ know that you probably know something that can help.”

In the yellowed light streaming from the street, Tarek’s eyes looked golden, his skin blending into the shadows as he stepped to the window opening, leaning against its frame with his arms crossed across his chest. “I won’t talk to him,” he began, and held up a hand when John started to speak. “Yeah, I know that’s why _you’re_ here, man, don’t start.” Looking out toward the street for a moment, then back at John’s rope, Tarek scoffed. “Man, get yer stupid ass in here before you fall on it, a’ight?”

Not about to argue the invitation with assurances that he’d be just fine on the rope, John waited until the other was out of the way before unclipping his rope and swinging in through the window. It was still dark inside until Tarek lit a kerosene lamp, illuminating the hodgepodge of furniture pieces that made up the living space. Securing the rope to the window’s latch, John took a seat on an upturned metal trash barrel that served as a stool. He’d been inside the unfinished apartment before, though only as himself instead of in a suit and a mask. One foot rested against the barrel, one stretched in front, he crossed his arms and waited for Tarek to be ready to speak.

It took several minutes, after which the boy lit a cigarette, offering one to John which he took and lit as well with a nod of thanks. “See,” Tarek began, letting out a breath of smoke, “that’s one of the reasons I’ll talk to you and not him. You’re different; you don’t come here like you’re above it all, like you’re some scary-ass shadow that’s gonna intimidate and beat answers outta people. You can’t have a conversation with that.” John blew his smoke slowly toward the window. “You’re on a different level, you feel me?”

John nodded silently, and it was quiet again for a while.

After pacing the floor, Tarek at last sank into a dirty easy chair for which the term ‘had seen better days’ was perhaps a decade too kind. “Kids are scared, man. They got enough on their heads without lookin’ over their shoulders wonderin’ what mob-hand’s gonna be pickin’ ‘em off the corner, y’know? We already got kids on the streets lookin’ like zombies and walkin’ dead and shit with what they seen, that’s enough.” Tapping his ash off into a labelless coffee can, he rolled an empty one towards John for his. “You don’t gotta ask; I know where they’re goin’. Lots of us do, not like we can do anything about it.”

“I can.”

A bitter laugh accompanied the smoke seeping out through Tarek’s nostrils. “There it is,” he repeated, gesturing at John with his cigarette.

“There _what_ is?”

“You stopped sayin’ ‘we’, finally.” Lighting a new smoke with the waning cherry of the first, Tarek watched John for a moment. “ _You_ gonna go get ‘em out?”

Tapping off his ash into the coffee can, John spread his hands. “If you give me the chance.” 

He watched him for a while longer, smoke drifting up from his hand as he sat. “Word is,” he began again at length, “they’re takin' ‘em to the old packing plants near Arkham. The ones that go,” trails of smoke spiraling as his hand turned over and around, Tarek met John’s eyes, “they don’t come back.”

“I’ve heard that, before,” he answered much more mildly than he felt it.

Small twitches in the muscles of Tarek’s face showed his agreement before he spoke it, his tone more settled. “This is different, man. Like I said, kids got enough to worry about ’round here—bein’ picked off, the pretty ones, that’s an _always_ thing, ya feel me?—but this, this is _different_ ,” he repeated. “Somethin’ more’s goin’ on; anyone’d be a fool not to see it.” Despite no change in the light from outside, the boy’s eyes seemed to turn a bit darker.

“What’s the different part?”

Unfamiliar on the boy’s face, a flash of fear stole over Tarek before he bit it back, taking a drag, maybe to cover it, maybe just for nerves. “There ain’t no bodies, man.” A waver shook his voice, and he wouldn’t meet John’s eyes. “Not in dumpsters, not strung up with ‘john doe’ toes at the morgues, not poppin’ up under them bridges.” A shaky hand finished off his smoke, stubbing it out into the can. “They _literally_ ain’t comin’ back. Not just us, either,” he continued, clearly meaning the street kids like him, “but runners, too. Gophers. Even they’re gettin’ plucked, and they’re _owned_ by the mobbies.”

Lips pursed, John took in the information, letting it sit in his mind in quiet. It also allowed Tarek the dignity of settling his breathing, calming down before they parted ways. “Thanks, Tarek.” John put out his cigarette, rising and setting the can on top of the barrel. “You need anything, you put out the word, alright?”

The other boy scoffed at him, not bothering to get out of the chair. “I _need_ your skinny ninja-ass outta here.”

Flashing a grin that rang a little bit truer than most, even after their conversation, John made quick business of ducking out the window and climbing his way back to the roof. Arkham and the shipping district were out of the range Bruce had set for him, and though he itched to go immediately, to follow the lead, he’d agreed to respect the boundaries they’d agreed on—at least, to a point. He’d need to talk it over with him, and if he played it right, he just might be able to tag along to investigate. Of course, if the Bat were out, the time table on that discussion might be moved up a few hours.

They had often made something of a game of it, in their time working together. In truth, it wasn’t all that different from stealth training in the manor’s attic, just with an admittedly much larger venue. Sometimes, it was a more concretely planned chase, an organized game, time requirements added, and sometimes it played out like this, impromptu. With the skyline as his guide, John headed for Midtown, taking a low position on a high perch, waiting for the shadow moving against shadow, the hint of a trail to follow. When he got it, a thrill shot through him, and he followed, staying a block behind until his lead stopped and seemed stagnant.

Closing the gap slowly but steadily, he at last touched down quietly at the far end of the building, barely a scuff of his boots to the loose concrete dust that settled on the roof’s edge. Its floor was covered in platelets like shingles, like most in that area of the city, doing a better job of diverting water from collecting in the middle. Of course, it was still covered in pigeon shit, but so was most of the rest of the city; rain only washed so much away. This was closer than he’d been in months, and a smirk found his features. Tonight, they shared the same roof. Even as he made his approach, the dark, crouched shadow at the opposite end did not move. John stopped a dozen feet behind, standing still, the night’s breeze tugging at his hair, sensing that his presence was known.

Confident, maybe overly so but not caring, he called out just loudly enough to be heard. “You tired of leading the chases?” 

The shadowed form rose, then, and stood, the stretch of its cape billowing in the breeze for a moment before it was detached, sliding off the shoulders to the floor a few feet away, where it settled flat and lifeless. It wasn’t Bruce. It wasn’t Bruce or the Bat, and the realization hit him like missing a stair on the way down. 

In the darkness, the slim figure turned, city glow reflecting off of slicked-back hair and a pasty painted face. John’s feet felt immobilized, glued to the rooftop as the face before him slid into a smile that stretched unnaturally far across its face. When it spoke, there was no mistaking the lilt of the voice.

“ _Hel_ lo, s _un_ shi _n_ e.”


	7. Six

_______________________ **SIX** _______________________

“We’ve come to call him ‘The Joker’,” Gordon explained, a sigh weighing in the newly-deemed lieutenant’s shoulders. “Not because he’s particularly funny, mind you, but because of _these_.” Stepping closer, he held out a small plastic evidence bag for the Bat to take. “Leaves ’em at every crime scene we’ve attributed to him. Some kind of calling card, as far as we guess.”

‘Card’ was, in fact, literal. Even before he took it, the Bat could see that the bag held a single playing card, its grey-tone patterned back simple and common enough, no casino logo or major brand markings to make it stand out. Similar sets were sold at every corner drugstore. Turning it over, expecting to see some sort of message, he found only a normal joker card. “That’s it?” he asked, eyes flicking back up at Gordon.

“Yeah, that’s it… except he’s all over the place, this guy, with his style. Those have been found at run of the mill B&Es, vandalism sites near Mid Town, and now body dumps in increasingly bold locations.” The sigh found the sergeant’s mouth. “We’re worried about the escalation.”

Tucking the card into a pocket on his belt, the Bat grunted in agreement. “You should be. I’ll look into it.” 

Raking his hands back through his hair, Gordon nodded. “Thanks, I know you’ll—” but he stopped, the Bat gone from sight by the time he looked back up.

Conversations were always kept short; it was safer that way, for both of them. It didn’t hurt that leaving in the middle of a sentence aided the theatricality of his presence in the city. Regardless, there wasn’t anything more to say. If Gordon had the card, he’d have already tested it for evidence—fingerprints, DNA, any other clues, of which they likely didn’t have many, if the sergeant was turning to him for help—and he wouldn’t have given it up if it had more use other than its message. 

Gordon knew how the Bat worked, that he would watch, that he could see what the police couldn’t, and that would be his role in this, as well. The card accompanied him back to the cave, taking precedence over other missions, at least for the current moment.

Passing beneath the waterfall, he noticed John’s cycle missing before he even parked the tumbler and stilled its engine. The urge arose to bring up the boy’s tracker first-thing, but he made an effort to fight it down. While he couldn’t agree with John’s claims that he could simply be left to his own devices, Bruce had to trust him, let him learn his own way, to a point. That did not mean, however, that he could not check the location of the bike. To that end, he strode straight for the supercomputer console, not bothering with the cowl until he had the reassuring blinking dot on the square on-screen map. There was, of course, another tracker John didn’t know was built into his suit, but he left that alone, for the moment.

Assured the bike was parked in a logical place, one of their agreed-upon locations, the Bat worked off the confining cowl, and Bruce set it aside, tapping gloved fingers against the console. Staring at the dot for a few moments longer, he exited the screen and tapped into GCPD records, compiling their incidents of this so-called Joker’s calling card. It was small wonder Gordon had come to the Bat with the case; there were over three dozen entries in the folder, none with any sort of hope for a solid lead. While that wasn’t necessarily unusual in Gotham, the incident pattern was what caught Bruce’s eye. 

The first few cases were minimal, more petty infractions—a pick-pocketed wallet or phone replaced with a card, tires slashed with a card stuck into the slice, rocks through windows with a card rubber-banded—but, as Gordon had said, they had quickly escalated from there. On his list now were charges like armed robbery, homicide, _double_ homicide, actions even the more bought-off of Gotham’s ‘finest’ couldn’t long ignore. According to Gordon, they’d kept the existence of the cards out of the press, but they both knew that tended to only last so long. If they were going to avoid raising a panic, they needed to find this character sooner rather than later. 

Cross-referencing the incident reports with their location notes, Bruce had the computer form a map of the activity, fading its color-coded dots according to the times and dates listed on the report data. As had been obvious, the smaller accounts had begun closer to the Narrows, to the less fortunate portions of the city, but he hadn't anticipated how quickly they had moved on. Only half a dozen reports remained within the more financially unstable neighborhoods, spiraling—literally, moving in a discernible spiral outward and around the city blocks—farther into the wealthier areas. Some of the robberies had been banks, though smaller, independent branches, with the homicides aiming towards Old Town. It was as if he—or she, Bruce reminded himself—were circling their way towards a larger payoff, though whether that was monetary or merely for the thrill remained to be seen.

Whoever it was, they were also doing plenty of taunting Gotham's authorities.

Saving his map, printing off a copy to take upstairs with him, Bruce cleared the screen and thumbed the console's power button. Some nights the Bat took a longer time to feel sated, to feel as if the night was affected, changed, by his presence, but what lay ahead required careful planning. While the Bat was action, Bruce provided direction, but from the very start, he hadn’t been the only directing energy. To that end, with his armor stripped, cleaned, and carefully re-cataloged with each piece in its proper place, Bruce took his map and ascended to the mansion, intent on a shower and then a talk with his most trusted advisor.

\---

"Were they all on different days?" was Alfred's first question, accompanied by a steaming mug of tea being set down on the table in front of Bruce. The map had been relinquished to a pair of fold-up glasses while the kettle had finished heating, having been put on before Bruce even arrived in the kitchen. He hadn't announced himself, or even, to his knowledge, made that much noise upon leaving the cave, but somehow Alfred always knew when he had reemerged, and always had something warm to help him shake off the night, one sip or bite at a time. By the time he'd made his way down the cool marble stairs, barefoot, he could already hear the quiet humming the older man often made when he busied himself in the kitchen.

Nodding in reply to the question, Bruce cupped his hands around the mug, leeching its warmth. He'd already showered, but the city's chill did not restrain itself to the mere physical. "None on the same day, no exact repeats on the locations."

Pouring his own cup, Alfred slid a chair out across from Bruce's, the printout between them. "And this... spiral, here," he began, swirling his hand in a motion to follow and indicate the sweeping gradient of dots the computer had spat out for him, "all of the reports fall along it, do they?"

"Yeap," Bruce spoke after a careful sip of the soothing liquid. "All of the ones they've gathered a card for are mapped out there." Watching his friend turn the paper this way and that, tracing it with his finger before shaking his head and exhaling, he asked, "It mean anything more to you than it does to me?"

"I hate to disappoint, Master Bruce, but I don't think I've encountered a single man who's made himself such a pattern of nefarious means." Stirring a spoonful of sugar into his drink, he seemed to reconsider his words. "Groups, mind you, have been known to present themselves with patterns, with more grandiose plans, though not often so mathematical a display. Do the police still think it's one man?—One person?" he corrected.

Maneuvering the bowl to his side, Bruce dumped two spoons' worth into his mug, half-smiling at the disapproving look he received from beneath Alfred's brows. "It's only two, old friend, don't worry," he assured him, having passed the days of his childhood when he would attempt to dump practically the entire bowl into his cup, forming a small mountain beyond the surface of his tea before it could even hope to begin dissolving. It had been more sugar than tea, to be sure, but he'd still been small, with a sweet tooth larger than he had been tall. As for the spoken question, he made a noise of agreement. "Gordon thinks so; whether the rest of his department feels the same, I can't be sure, yet." 

"What about your other projects," Alfred continued, gesturing to one corner of the printout that aimed closer to Falcone's territory. "Do you think they're connected, at all?"

Brows knitting in the middle, Bruce looked first at the map and then up, finding his friend's eyes on the paper, but aware there were thoughts milling around behind them. There was little doubt as to what he meant. "You think they could be?" It wouldn't be the first time, in his experience in Gotham, that a pair of problems turned out to be tied together, or even caused by the same catalyst. None of this Joker's crimes seemed to affect street kids, however, according to the police records.

"You have your evidence that the mob is involved, collecting these children and keeping them somewhere, but in all this time," he swept his hand over the table as if to indicate the years, "Gotham's crime families have never taken on this sort of a task. Something might have changed their means."

"The murders bear investigating… But everyday robbery and playing cards don't exactly scream mob activity, Alfred."

Standing to refill the kettle and set it on the cooled stove, presumably for use when John came home, Alfred returned to the table. "Not the orchestrators, certainly. But the mob, as you know, functions as a network. It uses all levels of criminality for its benefit, at times for distinct reasons." Tapping his finger on the center of the paper, the center of the Joker's spiral of activity, he drew more of Bruce's attention to his point as it continued. "Years ago, I was in Thailand, there was trouble between two of the native populations, in the mountains in the north. Like an old family feud, it was let go, ignored by the rest of the surrounding areas for many years, until it started affecting trade routes—at which point the local government, such as it was, called in outside help from groups in neighboring countries to settle the disputes, reopen safer trade.”

Setting his mug down after a longer swallow, Bruce returned his hands to bracket the warmth, listening quietly.

“At the time,” Alfred continued, “there weren’t a lot of sophisticated weapons being handled there, at least, not on the higher ground, for all the activity south and east, but folks made do well enough to pose a bit of a threat, even to us. Rather than take on an entire community with only a limited number of men, though skilled as we were, we chose to mediate, to look for the root of the troubles, first.”

When Alfred paused, Bruce found himself reaching for the rest of the story. “What did you find?”

Spreading his hands, Alfred’s gaze refocused on Bruce, having been distanced by memory. “Well, we found a mess of it. You see, each group of people claimed the other had been attacking them for years, stealing animals, drawing their children away, burning homes; some of the grievances went back generations. They both claimed they weren’t involved, not at fault, and there was no evidence the missing children were being held on either grounds. Turned out, they were both innocent, at least for the most part… A group of men from the south had been taking advantage of long-existing misunderstandings, and fanning the flames. It was _those_ men who had burned the homes, and they were the ones who had taken the children, trafficked them, all the while letting their victims blame one another. Worst of all, they’d paid at least one person on each side to help keep attentions on their neighbors.” 

The older man shook his head sadly at the memories. “There's always the chance,” he continued after a moment, “even if it seems unconnected right away, that this one man's spree could be serving as a distraction, or a help, to whatever it is the mob is planning."

"So the police focus on this mystery, watch him escalate, all the while the Falcone family makes their moves out of sight?" Bruce lifted an eyebrow, shrugging his shoulder to the side as he considered it. "It's a possibility."

"And those, Master Bruce," Alfred lifted his hand and pointed at him, this time, more a reminder than anything else, "are what you need to keep close track of. And speaking of possibilities,” the older man continued, stepping away from Bruce and over to a tiered set of storage shelves hung by the outer door, “this came for you, today.”

When he returned to the table, there was an envelope in Alfred’s hand. The neatly printed label bore his name in the center, along with an official stamp in the upper corner that caused him to sigh.

“Algren,” he noted, resignation as clear in his voice as its recognition on Alfred’s face. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” he offered, more for his own benefit than for Bruce’s, patting Bruce’s shoulder on his way out of the room. 

Already fiddling with the envelope’s seal, Bruce called over his shoulder, “Thanks for the support!” knowing full well the satisfied smirk that would be lingering on his old friend’s face.

There had been plenty of times former business partners had contacted Bruce personally, whether from positive or negative experiences with the company’s dealings, though it was a much rarer sort that found their way to his door when they _hadn’t_ ended up working together. Bruce—and, officially, Wayne Enterprises—had refused to work with Matthew Algren two years earlier, on the basis that his offered technology was not just controversial but potentially harmful. 

Unfolding the paper inside, Bruce was surprised to find it handwritten. For all of the pretense of the outside casing, the letter itself appeared far more personal, perhaps even hastily created. Bruce could feel the heat of the words rolling off of the page before he’d scanned past the first line. 

> “Mr. Wayne,
> 
> You recall my offer: a cooperative stake in the advancement of technology related to guided response team hardware. I recall your snub-nose response. Your disinterest was clear. But your early courtesy does not excuse choosing to go behind my back now. You could have made the professional move of coming to me, rather than stealing my source out from under my company.
> 
> I have no proof, but you’re as likely as anyone else.
> 
> -M. Algren”

Turning the paper over in his hands, Bruce stood and took it over to the window with him, brow furrowed. With less distraction, he confirmed that the brief missive on the front side of the sheet was its entirety. Hand-written was more personal, certainly, but also most likely a countermeasure to avoid leaving a digital trail in case the situation went sideways. Bruce had had his share of hate mail, but it tended to regard something he’d actually done. While not a city skyline from that angle, the manor had an excellent view from the kitchen windows, which Bruce allowed himself to survey in thought.

> Bruce had wanted to be absolutely certain that Algren had left Gotham, and, in truth, that he had officially vacated New Jersey, in general. To that end, he didn’t trust just any driver or business informant who might be bought, instead offering a cordial ride to the private airstrip personally, on Algren’s last day in the city. The man had agreed quickly, no doubt hoping for one last chance to convince Bruce of his proposals. Instead, when Bruce pulled up in his Jag, he popped the trunk for the bell-hop to put Algren’s bags inside, and made his intentions clear right away. 
> 
> “Just a ride, I’m afraid, Mr. Algren.”
> 
> “Please, Bruce,” the southerner held up his hands to fend off any unpleasantries. “I expected nothing more, given my unchanged destination. And do call me Matthew.”
> 
> Bruce nodded. “A fair assessment, Matthew.”
> 
> The ride itself was uneventful, by inner-city standards, not quiet enough to breed true awkwardness, but containing only Algren’s commentary on Gotham’s tourist offerings and Bruce’s taste in radio selections to tide them over the short miles of macadam and concrete. Bruce got out with him, shaking hands on the tarmac, and personally deploying the luggage from the Jag so an assistant could troll it all off to the aft of the plane. “Have a safe flight,” he genuinely wished, “and if you ever find yourself back in Gotham, be sure to give me a ring right away.”
> 
> Algren chuckled, sending him a mock two-fingered salute, but Bruce meant it far more than a future business connection. He wanted to be the first to know if this man or his tech came within one hundred miles of Gotham and his company.

And he hadn’t, to all of Bruce’s available knowledge. Neither had Wayne Enterprises, or any of its many subsidiaries, carried out the tech contract with Algren or anyone else on his behalf. With a missive like the one Bruce tucked into a file drawer, however, _someone_ certainly seemed to have gobbled up the opportunities right out from under Algren’s greedy fingertips.


	8. Seven

_______________________ **SEVEN** _______________________

“Jack?” John was well aware of the shock in his tone, but it was also well enough deserved. While not the rave paint that had decorated both of their skin on their first meeting, the colors which currently graced Jack’s face stood out in the night. The look was not quite comical, settling just over the line to unnerving; enough white covered his entire face and bits of his neck to make him appear pale, wraith-like against his dark clothing and darkened hair, and while he hadn’t painted his mouth, it seemed wider than ever as it opened in a smile. “It’s been like two fucking _years_ ; where’d you _go_?” 

With his head tilting to the side, there was just enough light to allow John to see Jack’s eyes flick away and then back to him. “Oh, I’ve been a _rou_ nd,” was volleyed back toward him. “ _You_ , on the other _ha_ nd,” he continued, sliding a foot to the side and stepping around John in a partial circle, “have been qu _it_ e busy. Like a—like a _bee_.” Pitch rising at the end, he sounded excited by the notion, as if it had come to him suddenly after looking for just the right metaphor, long fingers on one hand splaying out in a small flourish.

Not accustomed to turning his back to just about anyone lately, John stepped in an arc, as well, to counter Jack’s. “Have you been watching me?”

Their circle continued, and Jack spread his hands. “I do pre _fer_ it, afte _r_ a _ll_.” Waggling a finger in John’s direction, up and down, head to toe, he added, “Though yo _u’ve_ , um, you’ve got your _sel_ f a new _look_ , don’ _t_ you?”

Mouth closing tightly for a moment, John thought it best to change the subject. "What were you doing sitting on a roof with a _cape_ , Jack?" Aside from his leave of absence, finding the other boy randomly wasn't all that surprising, even outside the club scene. It had been a long time, sure, but Jack was like him, in certain ways; wandering Gotham's streets was as expected and natural as anything else, when you lived close to them. Like _this_ , however, was a different story. 

At the question, Jack canted his head to the other side, and then spread a slow, nearly-straight lined grin across his scarred face. " _Bird_ watching."

John stopped his circular march. To match, Jack ceased his round pacing, as well, but remained mobile in front of John, watching him with dark eyes. "Bird watching," he repeated back flatly, his gaze steady. It was a lie, obviously, but it wasn't _just_ a lie. It was a lie that was somehow funny to Jack.

"Mm _hmm_ ," hummed Jack's response.

"Pigeons?" he guessed more as a stall than a sincere attempt. "Because those're the only birds you're bound to see flying around Gotham, especially at night."

A lilting chuckle rose from Jack's throat, his mouth closed. " _I_ can think of _one_ more," he drew out, pausing in his movement to simply look John up and down. " _Wings_ in the—in the Nigh _t_." 

John sighed quietly. "You mean me, don't you?" Looking out over the lights of the city, he listened to the sounds of its mechanical breathing—the hum of air control units, approaching and receding motors below them, car horns, the intermittent but ever-present police sirens that echoed through the streets from at least _one_ given location at a time. All of it washed over him as he stood at one with it. "So," he continued, jaw muscles tightening, "wherever you've been, you've watched the _news_ , too."

Quick breaths cycled in and out of Jack's nose, not quite in laughter but nearly. "It was _all_ the r _age_ when it be _gan_." He spoke then with hands raised, spreading out as if on marquis display, framing the words, his voice taking on a tone of announcement. "...'The _Bat_ No _Long_ er Al _one_ ,' the head _line_ s read, and they were _righ_ t,” he drew the last word out. “The _Bat_ man isn't a _lone_ some vigil _ante_ anymore... _is_ he?"

"I think you already know the answer to that one, Jack." Turning his head back to face him, John crossed his arms over his chest. "The question is, what are you gonna do with that answer?" It had been almost two years since Jack had found out about Bruce, about the Bat, and he couldn't have said anything to anyone, or else _something_ would have happened. Even so, that didn't mean that behavior pattern would continue, especially without being encouraged. Bruce didn't have to know the guy was back, but John had to make sure their secret was safe.

Jack’s hands dropped from the air with a dismissive wave. “Giving you _up_ would be no _fun_ ,” he explained, as if the words put the matter to a rest all on their own. “No, no, no… what’s _fun_ is seeing you play the—the _hero_.”

A twitch ran through him, just beneath his skin, but John kept its evidence from his face. “Why is that fun? You think I shouldn’t be? That I can’t?”

Another flourish of his hands flying up in front of his face, Jack approached, crossing the imaginary circle they’d been drawing with their steps. As a reflex, John stepped backwards in response, keeping a buffer of rooftop between them. That is, of course, until his heel slid back to meet the wall protecting the access stairway down into the building. Keeping his legs steady, John stopped with his body inches from the wall, as if purposeful, with Jack only a handful of small paces ahead of him.

“It’s not _that_ ,” the other boy argued, rising up on his toes as he stood in one spot. “But it’s fun to—to _watch_.” It nearly sounded innocent, or might have, coming from someone else. 

John felt a ripple of goose bumps travel over his skin, and aimed to change the subject once again. “So you’re watching me, blocks from the club,” John countered, “but you’re still wearing paint on your face that doesn’t even look neon. Why?”

Pausing to draw his fingers in a motion to circle his face, Jack raised his brows. “Oh, this? I wear _this_ when I’m out… performing il _lic_ it ac _tiv_ ities. Just like—just like _you_ wear _that_ when _you’re_ out performing il _lic_ it ac _tiv_ ities.” When John only stared at him, Jack rolled his eyes. “Last I _check_ ed, vigi _lant_ ism was con _sid_ ered a _crime_.”

Sliding his feet along the rooftop closer to John again before John could question just how much sarcasm was built into that answer, his tongue flicking over his lips, Jack stopped just a breath away, humming lightly. "Ho _w_ , uh, _how_ do you get it _out_?" With a slight tick to his chin, Jack aimed his gaze down, sweeping over John's body from head to toe and back up, stopping at his waist—no, not his waist, his groin, and with that realization, the intended 'it' became clear.

"I don't," he quickly shut him down, "not like this."

"M _mm_ ," Jack hummed in disapproval. " _Pi_ ty. You're mi _ss_ ing ou _t_."

His back was already nearly against the stairwell wall, but John kept his shoulders squared, frame leaned back ever so slightly, as if he were there only by choice, relaxed, not having been backed up and cornered. "Oh? On what, exactly." 

Jack's gaze snapped back up to meet John's. His amber eyes were so clear, their color nearly crisp even in the night. "Action."

"Do you do that?" he shot back with an eyebrow popped above his mask in doubt.

" _Do_?"

"Yeah, _do_ ," John parroted Jack's tone. "Action."

"You me _an_ —you mean do I _fuck_ peo _ple_." Jack's eyes had widened, though not in the way that most people's do. They weren't surprised, shocked, or brighter, they were simply more present, more _aware_. It was a subtle shift, in the dim, ambient light glowing from the rest of the city, but noticeable all the same. It reminded John of a cat when they’d spotted something to chase.

John kept his own eyes steady. "Yeah, that. Or is it really only _watching_ with you?"

His face remained the same, but Jack's tone livened. "Do you _want_ to get _fuck_ ed, John?"

His response left no missed beat in between their words. "Yes, actually." It was not like it was a difficult question for him to answer—he had been out for just that when they’d first met.

" _Or_ ," Jack cut in before John's words had fully faded from his own ears, "do _you_ want _to_ fuck."

The distinction didn't really matter to John, at least, not to what he had ever hoped to get out of interacting with Jack, but he knew that, for some people, it made all the difference in the world. "I do both," he settled on answering, his shoulders rising in a non-committal shrug. 

A creaking sort of sound emanated from Jack. "I don't _do_ those."

Less a snort and more a sharp exhale through his nose, John sounded his exasperation and lowered his arms. Adjusting the fit of his gloves, he shook his head. "Alright. Fine. I should go."

The moment he took a step, Jack took one, as well, to counter, their cycle begun again, except this time in the same linear direction, Jack remaining in front of him instead of sliding to the opposite side. " _Go_?" he nearly mocked. "Go _where_? Because no one—no one's _ass_ is in _volv_ ed?... Are you that disa _ppoint_ ed?"

"Because I don't know you all that well,” he began, ticking the item off on a raised glove finger and continuing to add with each successive infraction, “and the last time I saw you before you disappeared, you killed a mugger, and then drugged me, so—"

Jack held up a finger of his own to stall him, waggling it forward a few times until he was sure there was silence. "You _mean_ ," he flicked his tongue over his lips, taking a step closer, "the last time we _saw_ each _oth_ er, I saved... your _life_... gave you something to—to _calm_ your... _pan_ icking... and let you _rest_... and now you—you don't wanna _stick_ ar _ound_ because I said I won't _fuck_ you?" The words weren’t angry, not even indignant, though as they came, John admitted they absolutely could justifiably be, but instead they came in a manner of correction, clarification. 

Jaw drawn tightly closed, John’s gaze flicked away. “Okay, put like _that_ it sounds bad, but that’s not—”

“ _Is_ n’t it?” Jack interrupted, staying still though John could feel his eyes on him. “What do you _rea_ lly want, sun _shi_ ne? Tell me.” As if the motion would further encourage him, he waggled his fingers in a drawing motion towards himself.

"Why did you have rohypnol?" John fired back, keeping his face steady.

Jack didn't flinch, didn’t even blink. "You visit the _shining_ est _ab_ lishments I do... you _learn_ to take precautions." When John's eyes only narrowed, Jack half-rolled his, a humming sound at his lips before he continued. "Not _ev_ ery person who finds him _self_ in—in _clu_ bs... is as... _spark_ ling a character as _you_." 

Leaning one shoulder against the retaining wall, his body partway turned to aim away, half his view on concrete and the other half on city behind Jack’s silhouette, John sighed. He could certainly imagine using seemingly offensive measures on the defensive. He’d done enough of that growing up, just employing different tools. “When we met,” he began in answer to the previous question, speaking slowly, deliberately, “I wanted you to fuck me. That’s what I wanted to get out of that night at the club—a fuck. Not just _anyone_ , but you get the idea.” Feeling the wind begin to tug at them as the night wore on, he tucked a few stray curls back behind his ears. Soon enough, he’d need to cut them or actually tie them back or they’d start to get in his way.

“Because _sugar_ daddy wouldn’t do it,” Jack observed, his voice flat as his eyes followed John’s fingers, his head remaining still. Rather than respond, John simply stared at him, his gaze drawn back sharply, and it pulled a slow grin from the other boy. “Ohhh,” was drawn out, overly pronounced in Jack’s exhale. “But he _has_ , now, _has_ n’t he? And you _still_ want my _co_ ck? _Fas_ cin _at_ ing.”

A snort sounded through John’s nose. “Yeah, well, I guess I don’t believe in monogamy.”

“ _Or_ … you don’t _want_ to.” There was a small bob to Jack’s head, his eyes peering at John from beneath low-drawn brows, his mouth ticked up on one side, bunching the scars. “ _Eith_ er way…” 

With only a barely-brushed step of his feet forward, the space between them evaporated. Though John’s suit was thick enough to keep him from feeling the press of Jack’s clothing against it, he was no less aware of the contact—at least for a few short seconds, before scarred lips covered his. Unlike the Bat’s, his mask was minimal in its coverage of his face, serving little more purpose than a frivolous masquerade accessory—after all, his face was far less famous, even then—and so it didn’t stand in the way. It allowed John to feel the uneven, unnaturally gathered skin that marched up into Jack’s face from the corners of his lips, the way it grazed against his own smooth cheek. It allowed him freedom of movement as he shifted the angle of his neck, sliding his lips almost harshly against Jack’s, teeth brushing over uneven skin. Lasting longer than he anticipated, stealing his breath before he even tasted the tint of coffee that steeped the warm tongue meeting his own, the contact finally broke with Jack’s hands pressing John’s shoulders back to meet the wall behind them. 

“I thought,” John began, taking a deeper breath to even out his voice, “that you didn’t do that.” They had kissed at the club, in the men’s room, but it had been after, more an encouragement for John to return than an offering.

Humming in disagreement, Jack kept his face close, his eyes becoming a dark set of blurs in front of John’s. “I neve _r_ said I _don’_ t, I said they aren’ _t_ for _free_.” His voice rose slightly on the last word, but less in pitch than it seemed to travel back into his throat, resonating there. 

“Right,” John acknowledged quietly, holding back from touching Jack, though he wanted to. “Well, I shouldn’t have to pay for _that_ one,” he reasoned, “because I didn’t ask for it. You gave it away.”

It was a displeased croak that replied, and Jack rocked back slightly on his heels, balancing there a moment. “Al _right_ ,” he returned, feet settling with a sharp click against the cement, “we’ll call _that_ one a _free_ bie.” Pausing only a moment, his tone leaving room to continue, Jack leaned his head close, his cheek brushing the line of John’s jaw, breath puffing against John’s neck, and his lips very nearly at his ear. “If you want _more_ ,” he practically purred, the vibration of his words causing the fine hairs at the nape of John’s neck to stand on end, “then _we_ need a sort of—of _pay_ men _t_ system.” On its way by as his face drew back, Jack’s nose bumped his neck, jaw and cheek in turn, accompanied by an audible inhale. “Meet me again.” 

There was no question to the words, no room for debate in the timbre of his voice. Even though John found himself ready to agree, wanting to follow through, he felt a shiver of reserve in reaction. “He won’t like that,” he stalled for the moment, knowing full well Jack wouldn’t need to hear a name to understand. “He doesn’t like you.”

“Who’s going to _tell_ him, hm _m_?” Jack asked, drawing back to match the line of his eyes with John’s, just enough distance between them to bring their circles into full focus. “Not—not _me_ ,” with the pronoun riding higher, nearly in complaint as his palm touched over his chest, the accusation went unspoken but somehow still not unsaid. “It can be our _lit_ tle… _secret_.” Though Jack’s tone rolled almost lyrically, it ended in a deep place, resonating in his chest as he stared John down. 

He found himself agreeing.

\---

So he didn’t tell Bruce. He didn’t tell him about that rooftop that night, he didn’t tell him about the alleyway two nights later, and he certainly didn’t tell him when Jack promised to introduce John to a new kind of club that had found its way into the Gotham underground.

There were days that began with a playful wrestle between him and Bruce, and ended with desperate kisses claimed in the shadow of the city’s decaying structures. Some nights he arrived as himself, while others Jack was particularly pleased to meet up with the Nightwing following—or preceding, or even during—an assigned practice patrol. Regardless of John’s regalia, Jack remained the same; he was always Jack, and always painted in some way. Neon didn’t see a return until John was told to ‘pack lightly’ for the night ahead.

What was a dark and silent night out in the Palisades at 3:00 AM was a street-lit, exhaust-fumed, cat-call littered environment in upper central city. Even emptier side streets still smelled of car exhaust, and John kept his eyes keenly trained on shadows he passed with his bike. It was a habit to watch for movement, for shapes that didn’t belong, but even in all of his nights under Bruce and his Bat’s direction, none of those shadows had so swiftly yet casually stepped directly out in front of his front wheel as the one did that night.

Swerving sharply, John’s heart felt like it stopped for a few moments before racing with adrenaline as it took all of his control and coordinated effort not to spin out or lose the bike to a slide down the rest of the street’s length. A significant skid mark trailed behind him once he was still, breath heaving and fogging up the inside of his helmet’s visor before he tore it off of his head. 

“The FUCK, man?” he called back the way he’d come, towards the figure which hadn’t even pretended at leaving the middle of the lane. Instead, it was calmly walking towards John, hands either behind it or in pockets. “You could’ve gotten us BOTH killed, asshole!”

Slicked curls framed the silhouette before Jack stepped into range of the lone light above a closed storefront. “I think we both _know_ you drive… err… _ride_ … better than _th_ at.”

Choosing to walk the bike out of the road in lieu of his hands finding their way to Jack’s face none too nicely, John set its locks and covered it with the small-folding tarp he kept in its storage pack. The alley was dark, not heavily trafficked, and anyone messing with a vehicle owned or commissioned by Bruce Wayne would surely have a surprise in for them. 

“‘Good rider’ means jack-shit if someone comes the fuck out of nowhe—” John had to stop as he was interrupted by a giggle. “Yes, I said ‘ _Jack_ Shit’, ha-ha,” he over pronounced. Breathing finally back to normal, he tucked his jacket up under the bike’s tarp, leaving him in lightweight ripped jeans and a simple tank. Jack had a set of his signature patchwork pants, and a vest John had a feeling he would lose fairly quickly once they were inside and on the move. That left his arms bare, and, without permission, John reached out to trace his fingers over the patterns Jack had painted there.

It took only a second for his wrist to be snapped up in a light but commanding grip. “Ah-ah,” Jack clicked his tongue reproachfully, “all in, uh… in good _time_.” Keeping hold of John’s wrist, not transitioning more comfortably to his hand, Jack led him down two more blocks, across the street, and to the middle of a through-alley, where he stopped.

“Uh… not to question your directional skills,” John looked around and above them, not even spotting a fire escape that could lead to a higher destination, “but… is this really where you wanna stop?”

A similar giggle echoed the earlier amusement, and Jack released John at last. “You’ll see,” came his cryptic assurance. “Come… come-come,” he repeated quickly when John hadn’t moved, fingers waggling at him. 

“Come… where…?”

Snapping his fingers as if directing a dog, Jack pointed to the dumpster occupying the wall space in the middle of the alley. John hadn’t put much thought into its presence up until that moment, aside from determining no one was hiding behind it when they stopped near it. “You… want me to, what, get in it?” he huffed the question, ready to move on with their night.

Except that Jack nodded with a hummed agreement, folding his arms as he faced the metal canister.

John stared at him, then at the dumpster, and back again. “You’re not fucking serious.”

“I am _fucking_ serious,” Jack volleyed in return.

“Jesus, you are…”

Untucking one arm, Jack made a shooing motion towards John, stepping behind him to pen him closer to the dumpster. “Up you _go_.”

A pat to the butt was the last straw, and John at last flipped open to left side lid to the metal box, ready to be assaulted by the smell of garbage wafting upwards. And, as expected, he _did_ smell trash, but not nearly a realistic amount, and he could swear he heard… a bass beat.

Brows scrunched, he rose on tip-toes, peering over the edge, and into the dark interior. He could see black plastic bags, suspiciously round and neatly tied in a near parody of actual garbage, and beside that, under the right side lid, what appeared to be _stairs_.

Looking back at Jack, John’s eyes widened. Then his face split into an excited grin. “Now THAT’S what I’m fucking talking about!” The exclamation was forceful but quiet, not wishing to draw attention as John carefully replaced the left lid, raising the right so they could access the staircase. “Fuckin’ hidden staircase straight out of a mystery story.”

The lilting giggle followed him as John hoisted himself inside using the forklift port as a foothold, Jack following once John was a few steps down. Closing the lid behind them, Jack’s silhouette disappeared when the city did, only to reappear hazily once John’s eyes adjusted to the very faint light glowing on the stairs. Turning to face downward, he could see the first section was dark, unadorned, but turning the corner on their way down revealed low-level LED strings guiding them down a brick corridor to another staircase, this one ending in a solid steel door. The thumping of bass beats was much louder, here, though John knew from experience it would be nothing compared to the scene once they were through the door. 

He was practically bouncing on his feet in excitement, just from the hide-away effect of the location. Only after catching Jack’s smirk and his glance downward did John realize he actually _was_ bouncing on his feet in excitement. “Alright, alright,” he held up his hands, flattening his feet to the concrete, “I’m calm.”

“ _Calm_ ,” Jack gave the door a hard pull, shoving John through it, “is not what we’re _going_ for.” 

The floor inside was smooth compared to the textured concrete they’d left behind, and John had to keep his feet from skittering along and dragging himself with them. Even so, he couldn’t quite stop the momentum that collided him straight into a pair of shaking, dancing bodies. About to apologize, he was simply greeted with a resounding ‘HEY!’ yelled over the music with smiles as he was drawn between them, squashed in a friendly manner, at least until his wrist was claimed once again.

In one swift pull, John was tightly up against Jack, whose vest was predictably nowhere to be seen. More designs met each other across his chest, extending down his stomach and, John thought for just a second, most likely further still. “Mine.” The single word was firm, not loud, not meant for anyone but John.

“Yeah, sure,” John smiled, tugging Jack closer, swaying his hips. “For tonight.”

Jack dug his fingers firmly into John’s lower back, free hand swiping to the side, towards the press of bodies further in the room, coming back with two thumb-sized plastic bottles while maneuvering them away from the door. “Mine,” he repeated, popping the caps off of both bottles and dumping them into his own mouth. John had been about to question if he intended to drink all of what he nabbed that night, but the moment his mouth was open, Jack’s was over it, sealed and pushing a sweet and spicy liquid over John’s tongue.

“Mmph!” Trying to pull back was fruitless, and only had Jack’s nails pressing into his skin, drawing a gasp from John that forced him to swallow or choke. Jack straightened, licking clean first John’s lips and then his own, looking smug. “What was it?”

“Come,” Jack ordered, instead, pulling John with him, “time to _pay_ for your _kiss_ …”

“I didn’t ask for it!” John defended, Jack’s hands strong on his waist, spinning him. 

Jack’s mouth was at his ear, his breath heated and damp. “You’re _gon_ na… gonna _ear_ n it, any _wa_ y…” Bass pumping around them, through them, Jack’s groin tight up against John’s ass, it was a heady moment before John was bodily pushed across the floor again, colliding with a tall, broad blond. “ _Earn i_ t,” chased after him as Jack simply stood watching, waiting.

Rather than be angered or even attempting to move or push away, the guy John smashed into only whooped and started grinding the air between them. John couldn’t see his face clearly, a set of strobe lights were aimed at John’s own eyes from the wall far behind him, but he could catch glimpses of a happy enough grin that was encouragement on its own. That, and whatever Jack had fed them both was starting to kick in. His body was already moving to the quickened beat, knees loose, his neck letting his head follow the lights, the silhouettes, the shadows. Warmth and release rushed his veins from his head on down, and uncertainty was a thing of the past.

Music he’d only barely acknowledged as having a decent rhythm sang through his bones. The stranger in front of him was closer, still, enough to smell the cologne he’d sprayed sometime earlier in the night, as well as the cherry syrup that had definitely made up a significant portion of at least one of the drinks he’d consumed before encountering John. 

Often, the club lights sent John home with a bit of a headache, despite how much he enjoyed his time in them. Right then, he felt like they were a part of the air, and the air was a part of him as he moved, as he moved his body against the blond, as he guided them both towards two more guys until John was in the middle of a bouncing, writhing collection of bodies. Only peripherally was he aware that he changed partners and groups multiple times, that an uncounted number of shifts had passed in the music, or that he hadn’t touched Jack since they’d arrived.

He _was_ aware that he’d been fed water at least four times, by different hands each time, but enough to keep his mouth and throat wet until his legs started to give out on him. Swaying, he reached to grab onto the nearest dance partner, but before he could close his grip around their sweat-slicked biceps, his own upper arms were tugged from behind, a swift arm tucking beneath his armpits and supporting him as he was floated out of the middle of the room. Gritty brick surfaces scraped against his face, his neck, and his chest—the only indication that had sunk in, yet, that he’d lost his tank at some point. 

“ _That_ ,” Jack all but growled against John’s neck, biting at his earlobe before continuing, “was a _ver_ y g _ood_ job.” 

Still feeling the atmosphere seeping into his skin from every direction, John couldn’t be properly startled by the yank to his pants, but he was surprised as air hit the skin of his ass. Wiggling between the wall and the press of Jack’s body, John turned his head to the side, cheek against brick, mouth drawn to the side. “…’m I getting’ a reward?” His tone was cheeky, despite already having been told he was paying off the initial kiss.

A deep hum rumbled the nape of John’s neck, no words following, just the drag of teeth against the top of his shoulder. Before he could ask again, or even make a witty sort of comment, his eyes widened, mouth dropping open as he felt heated skin press against his ass, continuing to where his thighs met. Jack’s cock, he realized. 

“FUCK,” he spat out, wiggling more happily even as his waist was held firmly in place, “you gonna fuck me, finally?”

“Hu _sh_.” With his chest pressed tightly against John’s back, tight enough to squash him fully against the wall, Jack failed to even aim for John’s hole, but thrust his cock between John’s thighs from behind him. His waistband not having dropped but for a few inches kept John’s legs close together to squeeze his dick, creating a friction drag that was uncomfortable and exciting at the same time. John could feel the head of Jack’s cock nudging at his balls, and he tilted his hips back to help get that pass a little further.

A pleased sound encouraged John’s adjustment, and he could feel Jack’s cock against his own, immediately reaching one hand down to push against the crotch of his pants, to keep his dick in reach of the contact. His own cock was barely being touched, and his ass was being all but bypassed, and yet John was seeing stars and ready to jizz his pants what felt like seconds.

Jack grunted behind John’s ear, shifting his feet apart to change his angle, now hitting John’s dick firmly with each bang of his hips against the cushion of John’s ass. Along with the lights, the air, the smells, John was keenly aware of the scrunched skin of Jack’s face while it rubbed at his shoulder blades, pressed against his spine, and scraped his neck following the path of aggressive teeth. 

When John did come, far from seconds into their contact, it felt not like a punch as other intense orgasms had, but like all of his nerves set themselves aflame in a cool burning wave, rippling over his body as if it and Jack’s were part of the same rolling motion, one object, one rhythm. Both of their come stuck along the front of John’s pants, to his thighs, and over his dick while Jack merely pulled himself back and tucked John’s waistband back into its proper place over the cut of his hips. He even managed to produce John’s tank, sliding it over his head and maneuvering John’s errant arms through the holes. 

Dopey smile taking over his face and refusing to even try to feel embarrassed about it, John draped his arms over Jack’s shoulders—with a fair amount of effort to coordinate the move—pulling him closer and leaning his back against the wall. “Fuuuck,” he drew out happily.

Jack’s nose bumped John’s, but his head drew back when John tried to kiss him in his pulsing afterglow. A whine drew out of his throat, but Jack was having none of it. While John still felt the tingle in his nerves, the connection to everything his skin touched, Jack looked as sober as ever. 

“C’mon,” he beckoned, bumping his nose forward and up against Jack’s again, “I worked hard. Just one?”

Not even blinking, Jack held John’s gaze, close as it was, leaning forward but gripping John’s jaw with his nails just at the edge of pressing into skin. His mouth was a hair’s breath away from John’s, though John didn’t dare close the distance. “On… my… _terms_ ,” Jack enunciated slowly, his teeth closing off each syllable tightly.

Undeterred, John grinned, head settled against the brick despite the grip, and made a kissy-face lip pucker at Jack. It could have easily been seen as a taunt, as back-talk, as a stupid result of his high, but none of those possible reactions panned out. A pair of heartbeats with Jack’s eyes boring holes through the glow encasing John’s, and then those scarred lips were on his. Not crushing, no teeth, at least not at first. There was nearly a gentleness to the pressure, one that John met to the best of his ability to focus as he kissed in return, dipping his tongue forward but not gaining any access. Jack’s tongue played at the seal of John’s lips, as well, but their mouths remained tethered only through passing touches, both of Jack’s hands encasing John’s face and neck to keep him in place.

His body was so close John could smell the lingering chemical scent of the paint on Jack’s skin, mixed with sweat and his own body’s musk. He could smell the oils in Jack’s hair, feel the cool brush of a curled lock against his nose and cheek. Shivers ran through John’s body until he almost couldn’t take it anymore, the tease of it, the build up of pleasure at getting just what he wanted from Jack every time they met. It was too much, when Jack’s tongue slid fully into John’s mouth, licking the roof of it, gliding against his own tongue so fluidly, so perfectly—

Completely untouched, this time, John’s dick shot off in his pants.

Even if John hadn’t gasped sharply, Jack would have known. He always knew what John didn’t say. John got another half a minute of making out, and then Jack was separate from him again, chuckling not quite in a mocking way. 

“You fucker,” John breathed out with effort.

“Th _is_ time, _near_ ly.”

They stayed in the club for two more hours, until nearly dawn, most of the crowd inside having moved on or gone home, leaving no more than two dozen around them as John finally felt the floor beneath his feet. They’d danced, he knew, but aside from sucking Jack off in return for several favors, John found he couldn’t really remember how else the time had passed. 

Even then, with the feel of the world back in his bones, John didn’t trust himself to drive. He didn’t want to leave the motorcycle, either. Jack had the idea, first, and though he knew in the back of his mind it was a _bad_ idea, in the moment, it seemed like the best course. That’s how he found himself hugging Jack’s waist as _he_ drove the motorcycle out of the city, back towards the Manor. The helmet kept the wind off his face, Jack having declined the offer of wearing it to steer. They parked at the edge of the garage, John unwilling to risk waking Alfred or Bruce, or worse, bringing Jack to the cave entrance. 

“Which… which _win_ dow is yo _urs_?” Jack’s gaze was aimed upward, towards the expanse of stonework that made up the towering walls around them. 

“WinDOWS,” John nearly giggled, his head lighter for the fast bike ride home.

Grabbing up the scruff of John’s neck as he teetered to the side, Jack righted him, pulling him taut up against his side, aligning their cheeks aimed towards the upper floors. “Wh _ich_ one _s_?” A spread-fingered hand ran the expanse of the building in view.

Humming as a stall to get his bearings, John leaned back to have Jack move them further away from the garage. Once he could, he lifted an arm to point to a set of third-floor windows near the crunch-corner of the manor’s wings. “There’s me,” he smiled, feeling more personally connecting with Jack at the thought of mixing his home life and their nightlife. “Most nights, anyways. Well, maybe half…”

The palm at his neck moved down to squeeze affectionately at his waist. “And the… the _oth_ er _hal_ f?”

A sly grin couldn’t be stopped from spreading on John’s face. After all, he was fairly proud of himself for landing the position he had in Bruce’s bed, many nights. “Over _there_ ,” he changed his arm’s direction to follow the length of the hallway between his room and Bruce’s, leading it towards the end of the wing. 

“Th _at’s_ your… your _sugar_ da _ddy_ ’s room,” Jack assessed, “ _is_ n’t it?”

Even as he nodded, John felt a tingling sensation in the back of his mind that seemed to admonish him for revealing that piece of information to Jack. But Jack already knew about the Bat, and hadn’t seemed to have said a word about it, or John’s Nightwing, so what, really, was the harm anyway?


	9. Eight

_______________________ **EIGHT** _______________________

With all the time that had passed since he had begun to teach John, the attic space of Wayne Manor still served their purposes for training better than any spot they’d tried since. In truth, there was not simply one open attic, as many houses sported, but a rambling set of storage pockets littering the tops of each wing, each shift in the mansion’s roofline. Some were accessible from the others, connected by a stairway, corridor, or crawlspace, while others remained closed to all parts of the house save a small access door or drop-ladder. Bruce preferred to lead John through the largest series of connected spaces, particularly the portion topping the central line of the building. In the early morning hours, not even the highest windows let in enough light to illuminate the floor.

Most of their combat exercises took place in the cave, on Alfred’s orders not to destroy the house—orders which had come about through an unfortunate incident involving a support beam above the east wing, nothing Bruce hadn’t been able to fix, but the point had been made. What the attics offered was a space for stealth, and for games. Bruce’s ultimate aim was to use each one to teach, but even he could admit that, at times, the purpose of their sessions was often simply to let off steam, at times accomplishing both. Of course, John had his own ideas on how to let off steam, assisted by Alfred, who had gotten him an X-Box gaming system to help occupy his time at home, but Bruce did not tend to join him with it. 

Whether or not he had it before joining the Bat at night, John had gained an even lower tolerance for early mornings than before. While Bruce had on more than one occasion resorted to smelling salts to rouse him, most days he merely settled for taking firm hold of the blankets and lifting at just the right angle and with just enough force to roll and flip John out of his bed. This was one such day—if he were inclined to refer to four o’clock in the morning as ‘day’. 

“Get up,” the Bat growled from Bruce’s throat.

John, for his part, landed with a not quite ungraceful thump against the area rug that covered the hardwood. “That’d be easier to do without you tossing me onto the floor, you know,” came his grunted complaint, stunted by forced breaths. He had begun push-ups once he’d hit the floor, and Bruce couldn’t help smiling to himself with a measure of pride. Even so…

“No time,” growled the Bat’s voice, and Bruce stalked out of the room on his way to the old servants’ stairway at the end of the hall, which they used to access the main attic. He didn’t wait for John to follow him, both knowing that he would and building his head start into the game. 

Nearly five minutes passed before soft, creaking steps sounded from the base of the staircase. Only two sounded before the noise abruptly ceased, and a grin spread briefly over Bruce’s face. Despite obvious evidence to the contrary, he was confident that John had continued upward, and he counted accordingly. Having settled himself wedged between stud columns in the open framework of the wall to the left of the stairway’s end, Bruce leapt for the opening when he reached the right count. The goal was to tackle his protégé, but though he made contact, with John’s twisted motion, the bulk of his weight landed to the side, sending the both of them sprawling to the floor and landing on their sides. It gave Bruce a more difficult fight to keep John’s form flat beneath him; more difficult, but not impossible. “Nicely done,” he praised.

Shifting his shoulders, John grunted. “Only so nicely,” he acknowledged, no doubt in light of his position. “Just Bruce, today?” he asked suddenly, and only then was Bruce aware of his own voice. “What’s the game, then?”

There was a smirk in John’s tone, and though his own couldn't be seen, Bruce returned it. “How about this,” he offered, lowering his head so that his breath could brush John’s face. “You can kiss me,” Bruce laid a finger over John’s lips when he felt him surge upward in reply, “if you pin me. But you have to catch me first.” Without any further stalling, Bruce released John, drawing his body away into the darkness behind them. He was immediately aware of John standing, though he couldn’t see him, likely getting his bearings before joining the game. Good.

For most, the floor alone would give away their location. For Bruce, and now also John, the game required a much higher level and control of awareness, of the senses. When one was blocked or removed, as the darkness provided for them, the others became heightened, taking a larger role to compensate for the loss. Bruce could not _see_ John, could not rely specifically on the creak of wood beneath his feet, but that did not mean he couldn’t hear him at all. John had left his shirt behind, but even the soft, pliant cotton of his sweatpants made itself known in the stillness as it shifted against itself with each of his steps and movements. 

The sound of John’s airflow was hushed, carefully controlled, yet even so it stood out from the breathing of the walls as they took in the outside wind, distinct in its rhythm. With ears trained on the pattern, Bruce travelled through the space, avoiding all of the known islands within its invisible sea—old chairs covered in sheets, trunks left from generations past, an upright full length mirror, crates of relics Bruce had never bothered to explore, and others. They could easily have cleared the space, used other rooms for storing its spoils, but having obstacles, and occasionally rearranging them, made the game more difficult, and also more satisfying, more fun.

Bruce tracked John’s progress through the space as he navigated his own way, not merely leading his protégé but also sidestepping, remaining close at times to tease as much for his own benefit as for testing John’s awareness. Bruce’s training had prepared him faster, dropped him in the midst of thirty men all hunting him at once, the reward for successfully evading the pursuit being a body less covered in bruises, and a better position in the line for dinner. While John had first been angling for fewer bruises, himself, more recently he worked for affectionate touches, kisses, and perhaps a rewarded fondle if Bruce didn’t need him to take a particular lesson too seriously. They had a lot going on, lately, with problems in the city weighing heavily on them both, but Bruce knew that, to survive, it was during those times that they needed an extra breath of air, a few moments to feel like they were just two people. Especially for John—Bruce wasn’t sure that, if he hadn’t taken the boy in, John would still make sure to lighten his own mental load every now and then.

Moving through an access corridor into one of the side wings of the main space, Bruce was proud to hear John follow him, though he immediately doubled back around him to head back into the main room. Barely had he crossed the threshold into the corridor again, however, than a weight dropped from its ceiling, toppling him and pinning him beneath a wiry but steadily stronger frame.

“Got you, motherfucker,” John’s foul mouth announced the second Bruce’s body was remotely secured beneath his. “And since I got you so quickly, I think I deserve an even better prize than a single kiss.”

“I don’t believe there was a time limit set,” Bruce argued, his voice even, despite his amusement. John had always displayed confidence, but since they’d been intimate, that confidence had extended to nearly flaunting himself at Bruce. He knew he should probably discourage the behavior, if he didn’t enjoy it so much. “But for the sake of argument, what would you be demanding?”

“You should suck my dick,” John stated with barely a breath of space between the question and its answer. From the tremble of excitement in his voice, it was clear that he’d thought the possibility through before they’d even begun. 

“I should, should I?” Bruce mused, rolling them with little effort so that his superior mass rested atop John, instead. “Seems I’ve pinned _you_ , as well, so maybe you should suck _my_ dick.” It was spoken in the same tone as the flippant comeback the phrase often served as, but he meant it all the same. John was rather talented with his mouth, and Bruce certainly wouldn’t mind allowing him another chance to prove it.

Along with the impact grunt as he was moved to rest against the floor, John let out a snort of disgust. “That one doesn’t count at all, because I’d already won; I had you.”

“Yes,” Bruce acknowledged, “you _had_ me, and I’m very proud, but—” Bruce’s words stopped abruptly as he was once again rolled, and, with an admirable struggle, turned onto his stomach, John’s bare chest flat against his back. “Yes, John?” he sassed, turning his head to the side so that his nose was no longer squished. John didn’t have the weight, or yet the strength, that Bruce had, but he had learned his lessons well. The backs of Bruce’s knees were crossed over with John’s ankles, his arms pinned down at his own sides by John’s thighs, and with his body laid out firmly against Bruce’s, there was little room for struggle—for most people. Of course, it was nowhere near an unbreakable hold for Bruce, in an emergency or even a sincere fight, but the current moment warranted neither. 

“I want more than a kiss,” he stated simply, a straightforward demand uttered barely an inch from Bruce’s ear. 

Humming in a moment of mock-contemplation, Bruce shifted his shoulders. “Well, it would seem negotiations are in order,” he began, “as you are currently in no position to gain any of your demands, let alone others.” A kiss would be awkward, but doable, in their current state, but that was all. As if in rebuttal to that thought, however, John’s weight shifted to his hips, driving them down against Bruce’s ass. “That’s a nice thought,” he offered lightly in acknowledgment of the movement’s statement, only so because it was, at the moment, hypothetical, “but I don’t ha—”

“I do,” John once again interrupted. 

“What do you mean, _you_ do?” Bruce questioned, brows drawn down in confusion. “Did you hide supplies up here in the hopes you’d get lucky one of these times?” In all fairness, it seemed like a logical plan, now that it had been spoke aloud.

“No, but that’s a great idea, thanks,” echoed back sincerely from above his ear. “Actually, I’ve got stuff in my pants pockets.”

“In your—” Bruce shifted his face further to the side, which would have placed John’s in his peripheral vision, had there been any light by which to see it. “How did I not hear foil in your pockets?” The sweats were soft, but even their material would have caused at least a few crinkles against the packages as John had moved through the attic. 

Not a single hesitation preceded the explanation. “I wrapped ’em in toilet paper first,” John stated as if it were the most obvious answer imaginable. “What did you think took me so long to get up here?” There was a moment of silence between them, and then Bruce’s chest began to shake both of their bodies as he laughed. John shifted to compensate. “What?” he asked. “What’s so funny?” Bruce continued to laugh, trying to get enough breath by which to speak.

“Two years,” he nearly coughed, pausing to shake more. “Two years of stealth training… and I’ve taught you to wrap condoms in toilet paper so they don’t make noise in your pocket.” The words barely escaped before more laughter bubbled out behind them.

“The padding makes sense, you jerk!” The yell was insincere, accompanied by return laughter from John, both of them shaking against the floor. When Bruce only repeated his sentiments, he felt teeth press down against his shoulder. 

“ _Ow_ ,” he complained, his tone more indignant than he truly felt. 

“Stop laughing and let me fuck you,” John directed at the back of Bruce’s neck, his tone fond, despite the bite. “Have you done it that way?” The question came up fast, probably as an afterthought.

His form at last settled from shaking, Bruce shifted his weight as he caught his breath. “I have.” While the answer could have been more detailed, explaining the nature of the past encounters that had led to the experiences, John’s question in itself did not require it, and Bruce left it alone. When John remained quiet, Bruce added, “It just didn’t feel that way with you.”

There was silence, and darkness still lay between their faces, even so close, but Bruce felt he could still almost see the way John’s face must have pinched at the statement, coming through in the pitch of his voice. “What… what does that even _mean_? How can it ‘feel’ one way or the other; it’s just sex—you like it or you don’t, it’s pretty simple, really.”

Bruce felt a quieter chuckle roll through him. “It’s not always that cut and dried, John, especially when it comes to relationships. But I don’t really have an answer that doesn’t sound like a cliché.”

“Then don’t gimme a cliché,” John replied. “Did you _like_ getting it in the ass? Because if you did, why not do it? I mean,” he continued, hesitant but not sounding shy, a shrug of his shoulders tugging at the skin of Bruce’s back where it met his, “if you don’t want me to, that’s fine, but there’s no reason to get hung up about it, right? I’ve done both, too.”

Yanking his arm free, Bruce wrapped his fingers around the back of John’s neck, tugging his face closer to his own. Taking the encouragement, John leaned around to cover Bruce’s mouth with his, even at their terrible angle with the floor. Fingers sifting through the lengthening curls John’s hair was turning into lately, Bruce held him in place for several moments, enjoying the contact, tasting him. Satisfied for the moment, he released his hold, pressing a firm, closed kiss to John’s lips. “You know what you’re doing?” he asked quietly, even knowing the answer.

“Mhmm,” John affirmed, kissing along the line of Bruce’s shoulders. “I do.” The pressure at Bruce’s calves lifted as John stretched out his legs, aligning the frames of their bodies. “Will you let me?”

With the new position, Bruce could feel exactly how eager John’s body was for him to say yes. “What, right here? On the floor?” He didn’t actually have plans to object, but asked anyway. 

A chuckle lit Bruce’s ear. “Would you rather move all the way downstairs, back to one of our rooms, wasting all that time and possibly running into Alfred on the way?”

The boy had solid logic. 

“Besides,” John continued, pressing a line of kisses partway down Bruce’s spine in the same fluidity of motion as he shifted his hands to push his shoulders down flat, “I kinda like you on the floor.”

Humming first in appreciation of the contact, and second sliding the sound into a rising pitch of question, Bruce aimed back, “Are you going to be a cocky bastard the _entire_ time?”

“I might.” Foregoing any further response for the moment, John went straight for slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of Bruce’s pants, tugging them swiftly but gently over his hips and down, exposing his ass. Bruce noted that they remained at the tops of his thighs, restricting his movement and trapping his dick—though also keeping it from rubbing harshly against the floor, at least. He didn’t bother complaining, letting John lead for the moment, intrigued to see how it would go. 

The only sound he heard was two distinct, quiet rustles of foil before his cheeks were spread apart, his breath held for a moment as warm, slick fingertips pressed up against his entrance. There was no hesitation, no fumbling movements, just nimble fingers first circling the furls of skin before pressing at their center, gently and steadily penetrating, sliding inward. It wasn’t fast, not rough, and John took his time as he worked further inward, guiding his fingers out and back, crooking just so and lighting the nerves inside, earning softly breathed moans from Bruce. Having shifted his knees to the floor again, John was balanced enough to run his free hand over Bruce’s back, up his sides, a light but not tickling contact. There was nothing in his touch that felt nervous, or even inexperienced; he was confident with himself, with Bruce beneath him.

While not nervous, himself, Bruce found his mind beginning to wander, though not entirely in distraction. John must have sensed it, as he paused, his thumb dragging a circle along the base of his ribcage. “You okay?”

He was. He also was not. “It’s… It’s just been a while,” he settled on for an answer. 

“Oh.” All motion stopped a second later. “Oh…” John’s posture shifted. “Well, then we shouldn’t, if it’s ben too long… not right _now_. It’ll hurt.”

Along with care, there was a note of disappointment in John’s voice. The sound of it drew an unintended admission from him. “It’s been a while since someone _else_ played around with my ass.”

The weight on him shifted again, this time John leaned further over him. “You play with your own ass? How did I not know about this?” John’s voice rose with incredulity. “Can I see? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Probably because of that tone, right there, and that question.”

“Rude.”

“Maybe, but you’re fine; keep going.” Exhaling, Bruce settled his cheek against the wooden floor, his body relaxed beneath John. Unbidden, his mind split its attention between the sensations he was feeling in the present and their echoes in the past. The floor beneath his skin was far from heated in its touch, but it was nothing like the cold, rough floorboards to which he was once pressed. It was dark, now, their bodies unlit by flickering brazier flames, their skin unburnt by wayward sparks. Amidst the disparities, he noted the same excitement training raised within him, the way in which his body accepted a firm grasp, another’s direction. 

His breathing had quickened in response to the memories, and it caught, skipping, as a different pair of slender fingers—two, by then—found the mark for which they had been searching. It had been years since he had felt it, that electric sensation, the way each bump and stroke against it felt as if it shot through him, and he made an effort to block out the past, the old experience that could never repeat itself, only focusing on the present, on John. Harsher breaths vibrated through his chest, and John’s grasp on his skin became rougher, more insistent, a third digit joining the sliding motion into him. They began to shift apart as they drew past the tight ring, stretching him, sending a pleasant burn through the muscles as they accommodated. 

“That’s good,” he encouraged, keeping any instructional tone out of his voice, not wishing to patronize him, not then. “You feel good, John.” The name was spoken as much for Bruce’s benefit as for John’s.

With a steady rocking motion guiding his fingers, John leaned around Bruce’s shoulder to find his lips again, the press of his own more forceful, in control. “I’m going to fuck you,” he murmured over Bruce’s mouth.


	10. Nine

_______________________ **NINE** _______________________

“I’m going to fuck you.” The words were nearly slurred as they left John’s lips and ghosted over Bruce’s, his breath feeling shallow and hushed as he listened to the rhythm of the other man’s, to his effect on it. They’d had sex, and he’d listened to the pleasure in Bruce’s breathing before, but it was different, this way. It was a different kind of intimacy to be the one penetrating someone else’s body, and it left John feeling buzzed simply on that one fact. “Are you ready?” he asked, beginning to ease his fingers back out.

There was a moan that seemed in agreement, first, but John waited until Bruce settled his breath and gave him a spoken permission. “Yes.”

Resting his forehead to the back of Bruce’s neck for a moment, the rise of vertebra hard against his skull, John raised himself back to rest his weight on his knees. He’d put the condom on first, avoiding the too-slick-hand problem of doing it second, and now he worked his sweats down just enough to keep a good range of motion and still avoid a rug-burn effect. 

“Shh,” he murmured when Bruce’s breathing hitched at being emptied, John’s hand pulled back completely. “Just for a moment,” he soothed, rubbing a hand firmly over his hip, up and over his ass, kneading the rise of skin in his grip and needing to settle his own breath in anticipation. With a twist of slick fingers over his dick, already at full attention and needing no further encouragement, John leaned over Bruce in the dark, disappointed only that they had chosen _then_ to do this, when he couldn’t _see_ the man beneath him. 

“Just tell me if I go too fast, okay?” Pressing his clean hand flat over Bruce’s ass, he nudged the tip of his shaft against his hole, his eyes closing at the resistance he felt as he pressed forward. Mouth falling open, he kept the pressure until the tip breached the tension, a gasp sucked in with his breath at the heat and tight grip into which he was welcomed. 

A grunt sounded from below John, followed by a noisy exhale. “Been a while for you, too?” Bruce’s voice roughly aimed up at him. The end of his words was punched out of him as John lowered his hips, driving deeper. 

“Yeah,” he groaned, pausing to savor the feeling once his hip bones were flush with the swell of Bruce’s rear. For a moment, he lay out over him, careful to keep his balance and weight steady, his hands riding up Bruce’s sides, bracketing the cut of their muscles, his thumbs running along their ridges, fingers riding the subtle waves of his ribs where they could be felt beneath his flesh. He didn’t need to _see_ Bruce’s body, he realized. In fact, he knew it well already, knew its strengths, its motion, and its build. Rather than _watch_ the shifts in his body, the different tensions as it adjusted to John’s weight, to his presence inside of it, John let his hands read the reactions. 

With a roll of his hips, driving his cock deeper inside of Bruce, John grasped the man’s waist, fingers curled almost beneath him, feeling the way his lower abdominal muscles contracted as he breathed sharply inward. Right beneath his palms, he felt tension as he drew back, Bruce’s hips ready to follow him in lieu of losing the sensation of being filled. Not letting them, John pressed them down, holding them steady as he shifted his own, wanting to just _feel_ him for a few more moments. Beneath his thumbs, he could feel the base of Bruce’s back, the way it shifted with impatience he knew the man wouldn’t speak, evidence of motion in his shoulders, perhaps even flexing fingers. A smile eased its dimples into John’s cheeks as he cataloged each one.

“Alright,” he spoke quietly, shifting his arms to brace against the floor, his back bowed above Bruce’s. No other warning was needed, and he was aware of Bruce propping his head on his arms, elbows bent, as John began to rock his hips down. 

It wasn’t the best position—the floor, the dark, their pants just enough in the way to be noticeable—but the difficulty made if feel more desperate, made him work harder to angle the thrust of his body, and left his legs burning soon after starting and holding his position. Bruce’s sweats, in turn, he knew from purposefully positioning them, had left his dick inaccessible, grinding against cotton instead of skin. While he had no trouble giving Bruce the lead, had fun with it, taking it for himself was a thrill he meant to savor in full.

Laying his body down as flush with Bruce’s as possible, John felt his lower back tighten in complaint as he thrust into his teacher, his caretaker. Ignoring the burn in his muscles, John worked them faster, in harsher motions, smirking when he heard the quiet squeak from the skin of Bruce’s chest sliding against the smooth finish of the wood beneath him. Eager for more sound to join the squeak of the floor, the syncopation of their breathing, the nasal vibrations of moans from under him, John drew his hips farther back with each thrust, nearly pulling his shaft completely out of Bruce’s ass before slamming forward, relishing the smack of their skin on impact. It was dirty, maybe, but the sound satisfied him as he worked to make it louder, to earn more rumbles of noise from Bruce’s chest. 

What he earned, first, were breathed out encouragements, some containing words, some sounding as if they were mere attempts, not quite successes. He heard the quieter ones less as his ears were filled with the rush of his own pulse, his own panted breathing, and moans he didn’t bother trying to stifle. Taking as much mercy on Bruce as it was for his own muscles, John resettled his knees, hauling the other’s hips up off the floor to remain flush with his, until they were both kneeling, Bruce still propped on his arms. It was harder to keep their bodies together, but easier for him to move. Fingers firmly sunk into the flesh of Bruce’s hips, John pulled the man’s body toward him with each thrust forward of his own, though not aiming for speed or harshness. 

Pausing for a moment, leaning forward, John carefully disentangled the hem of Bruce’s sweatpants from his dick, wrapping his hand around its heated length. “I want you to come with me,” he rasped out over the man’s back. “Are you close enough, if I help?” Simultaneous rarely worked, but he’d settle for close behind.

“Give it some attention, and I might be.” 

As a reward for the sass in his tone, John squeezed his fingers, earning a groan of appreciation. Timing the motion of his hand with his hips, he worked Bruce over from both sides, his thumb gliding over his tip as it was slicked with pre, grinding the pad of it against the slit. Knees moved forward for better balance, John rested his nose against Bruce’s spine, breath hotly dropping against his skin, the tension in both of their bodies all but humming in its vibration. 

He came before Bruce, hips stuttering forward as a guttural sound left his throat, but he smiled, lips pressed to heated skin, pumping his fist in earnest over Bruce’s shaft. His groans were distinct, deep in his chest, and John could hear it almost before he felt it pulse through his fingers, an appreciative hum leaving him, as well, as Bruce’s ass tightened and tensed in response.

“Fuck,” he panted, stroking over Bruce for a few moments longer before releasing him, taking a few more before pulling himself out. “That felt incredible.” There was no lie in his words, no talk-up to make his partner feel better about himself. It was true; being inside of Bruce had been incredible, both physically and for the connection he’d felt. About to reach for him, John nearly squawked in surprise as he was tugged off his knees, turned on his back on the floor with a heavy weight over him.

Before he could speak, John’s mouth was taken up by Bruce’s, a hot tongue delving into it, earnestly seeking out his own. Bruce spared him no room by which to breathe, lying over him, shifting his cock against John’s where it lay already flush against his stomach, neither one having left the game just yet. 

Heavy hips began to move above him, and John groaned into Bruce’s mouth, wasting no time in tangling his legs around the other man’s, his fingers in his hair, savoring every second. Without another thought to the original training game, John was happy to remain right where he was for the moment, trading kisses and grinding out against Bruce.

\---

Thirty minutes, two orgasms, one sore jaw, and a shower later, John found himself cleaned, dressed and at last eating breakfast. Bruce had left folders for him, each with a set of notes on a specific function of Wayne Enterprises, and its applicable histories, in a stack on the kitchen table. There were far fancier rooms they could eat in, but Bruce never used them for himself, reserving them for the rare occasion that large groups of people were actually _at_ the manor. John had learned quickly that most meals in Bruce’s house were eaten in the kitchen.

The table was small, by the manor’s standards, but sizable enough to fit six chairs around its edge, and with enough space in the middle that John could spread out his papers, his food in front of him, keep a buffer between the two and still have room for Alfred to join him with his tea a short time after. 

"These sound more like a commercial for the company than official paperwork," John commented between bites of scrambled egg mixed with chopped vegetables. 

Settled into the chair just around the table's corner, Alfred nodded. Swallowing the pull of tea he had drawn slowly from the edge of his cup, he replied, "Indeed they are, sir. These," he began, pointing a long finger, knuckles just on the smoother side of growing gnarled, to sweep over the papers spread on the table, "are public briefings. They're meant to explain to the people of the city—and others, as it applies—what it is the company does, and how it goes about doing it."

"So... they're a _written_ commercial," John spoke dryly, taking another bite.

Alfred chucked. "I suppose so." Setting down the tea, he picked up one of the folders, minding the tilt of its contents. "Master Bruce thought it a more fitting start to your understanding, to get a broad stroke at the picture, as it were."

A quiet snort of air puffed from John's nostrils. "Thinks I'm too dumb to start with the thick stuff, huh?" It was mostly flippant, not a serious accusation, but he couldn't help feeling a tinge of truth to it even as he let it fly.

Thick grey brows shot upward, the man’s tone following suit as if pulled by the same invisible string. “Not at all, John. Just the opposite, in fact; he finds you quite clever, rather quick to pick up, as you’ve shown yourself time and again. And I quite agree. This way, however,” he continued, tapping the pile of paper, “he figured you get the proper order first, before digging in deeper.”

Jaw set, John wasn’t sure he was convinced, but it didn’t seem worth arguing about it. Besides, he had other things on his mind besides his foray into business education.

He and Jack had plans that night. John had every intention of staying sober, this time, despite how amazing that high had been for his climax. It was a personal boundary, a measure of control, especially within the atmosphere of the clubs where such things so often became clouded.

Of course, there was more than just his dick on his mind. John’s night would serve a dual purpose—he planned to follow up on leads in the Narrows, both about kids he’d lost track of as well as one significant lead on the two men he and Bruce had been looking for. Most of the latter hadn’t panned out into anything at all over the last couple of years, but the address he’d been given was connected to the mob. That was a promising start.

Knowing he couldn’t leave the house with paint on for the club, John had taken up the habit of packing it in his go-bag with other supplies for the night. It had worked out wonderfully until late that night when Bruce caught him packing that very same bag.

“Those don’t look useful for patrols,” came the curiosity-tinged observation from behind where John crouched. Water kept the cave too loud for John to hear Bruce approaching, but even without that distraction he knew Bruce was still able to catch him off guard, despite his efforts. 

John stilled his motion for only a moment before continuing to fill the pack, zipping it closed. “They’re not,” he agreed, standing to sling the strap over his shoulder, “they’re for _after_.”

“A club?” It was almost commendable how calm Bruce kept his voice over the question.

“A club,” John repeated, waiting.

Reaching a hand out, Bruce straightened the buckle strap on John’s pack. “I thought you were done with those.” 

“Is that… judgment… I sense?” John half squinted at Bruce. “Beee-cause I feel like that’s probably the safest of my extracurricular activities.” He only offered a charming smile when Bruce gave him a reproachful look. “Are they forbidden?”

Mouth forming a thin, pressed line, Bruce drew himself close, cupping a hand along John’s cheek. “It’s your choice,” Bruce began, touching his nose to John’s, “but one of these nights, they’re going to eat you alive.”

“Maybe I’ll just like that.” John winked.

Forehead against John’s, Bruce grunted. “That’s not what I mea—”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted, “I know what you mean. I’m fine, Bruce. I’ll be fine.”

With a lingering kiss, Bruce at last let go and stepped back. “Just… be careful.”

John grinned at him, slinging his leg over the bike’s seat. “Always.”


	11. Ten

__________________TEN________________

For Bruce and the Bat, possibilities and variables stood between them and stopping the ‘Joker’; in any equation to be mastered, those were the key to understanding.

Since Gordon had alerted him to the presence of the GCPD’s newest headache, the Bat had traced their efforts throughout the city. The commissioner had been right to concern himself and his department with escalation; a flawless and untraceable hit on Gotham National Bank had left the contents of a vault missing and, more importantly, two guards dead at the scene. What had a different part of the Bat’s and Gordon’s curiosity burning were the masked criminals also lying dead at each successively bested security measure of the facility, including in a tunnel beneath the branch’s lobby floor.

“The money’s gone,” Gordon’s ever-exhausted voice drifted over the sounds of boots against broken glass and shattered concrete, “so at least _one_ of them had to have made it out.”

Squatting low, the Bat plucked a frowning clown mask off of one of the would-be accomplices. A single large tear was painted as rolling down the façade’s cheek. Each of the men they’d found had been wearing a similar mask, though each with their own expression and distinct paint job. Turning the mask over in his gloved hands, the Bat tested its weight against his fingers, finding it much too heavy to be the type of fare from a party supply or a casual purchase. Even the expression appeared hand-painted. The contrast between those details and the careless manner in which each man had been taken down and left behind deepened the crease of his already downturned frown.

“These guys weren’t hit by the guards, Commish,” came the nasally affected voice of Detective Harvey Bullock. While a bit of a hothead and brash, the man was the right sort of naturally suspicious that served his position well. The Bat kept his interactions with him brief, when they were necessary at all. At the moment, he remained quiet, having already deduced the same. With a kick of the toe of his boot, Bullock jostled the fallen clown closest to him. “Angles are all wrong, and the wound patterns don’t match their guns.”

“Don’t do that,” Gordon admonished almost absently. He had lowered himself into the tunnel’s hole, though his head and shoulders remained above floor level.

“What?” Bullock scoffed, but notably kept his foot to himself, stepping a pace away from the body. “Not like they don’t deserve a few knocks for all they just helped go down in here.”

“I’d say they got at least as much as they had coming to them,” the Bat grated out. Chances were that these men were contract thugs, hired muscle who had been sold out for a bullet and the silencing of whatever they may have witnessed. Like the mastermind’s identity. Or just their share of the loot.

Bullock snorted, but didn’t argue the point. Instead, he called over another officer, and the two walked to a different part of the scene, making notes on other details. That left only Gordon and the Bat within earshot. Gordon had leaned his back against the rim of tattered flooring tile, shaking his head as he surveyed the scene.

“So he quits working alone, only to knock off his own team. All for the most dangerous score he could take, this side of the river.” The commissioner rubbed his hand roughly over his face before reaching up towards the Bat, who easily lifted him by the arm and out of the hole, setting him back on the unbroken floor. “Thanks.”

“How so?” Sure, the bank had security, but it seemed whatever team had been put together had done well enough with that to make it appear easy.

Gordon sighed, the sound issuing from his bones as much as it had from his lungs. “This bank, though not as if we could ever _prove it_ , mind you,” the exhaustion in the man’s voice redoubled, “handles accounts for two of Gotham’s largest crime families.” Hands resting on his hips beneath his suit jacket, Gordon’s eyes went to the gaping vault. “They’re already on heightened alert, what with two of their own caught up in disappearances… Our guy here has just made half of Gotham’s notorious his bitter enemies.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” the Bat offered, but it seemed off. He had been working half under the assumption that this spiral could still be connected to the mob, but with _this_ , either the ‘Joker’ meant to make a break with their benefactors, or they were never actually directly connected. “He leave a card this time?” It suddenly occurred to him that Gordon hadn’t greeted him with an evidence bag, this time. Rather than produce one, the older man let out a tired and unamused chuckle.

“See for yourself,” he directed, pointing off towards the vault.

Inside, as the Bat stepped over debris and loose bills to enter, was not one card, not two, but an entire room littered with dozens upon dozens of mismatched ‘Joker’ cards, clearly from more than a few different styles of decks.

Given the existing patterns of escalation, both Gordon and the Bat figured that their next entanglement would have seen another card-dump like the bank, a bigger splash, and a much larger body count littered wherever the mysterious perpetrator found themselves.

\---

Home invasions were not uncommon in Gotham, and in fact were so routine that, for the most part, the GCPD didn't respond right away. They’d show up to take survivors’ statements and record losses, maybe even produce a sketch based on a witness’ description. If they’d sketched them all, Bruce knew, they artists’ renderings would likely stretch to Metropolis and back, and those merely the unsolved cases. Only extreme cases, and of those only in the city proper, earned an early appearance by Gotham’s finest. More extreme were those that summoned the Bat’s inspection.

A card, again. Back to single, this time.

Walking into the scene from the back entrance, satisfactorily startling a half dozen officers in his wake, the Bat was greeted first by a near blinding flash of a camera bulb. Not bothering to raise a glove-gauntleted hand to block the light, the Bat merely stared down the now wide-eyed photo journalist. 

“S-Sorry,” came the near squeak behind the lowered lens. Fingers twitched over the shutter switch, and it was clear that, if not for a glare, more pictures would have been snapped. A slightly longer stare, and the kid finally realized he should move, letting the Bat continue further into the room. 

Yellow cordon tape littered the space, sectioning out the lower floor of the small house. The scene’s location on the map was enough of an anomaly to have made the Bat question the connection before he’d come out to join them. Until then, the Joker’s pattern had been tidy, even on a mathematical level. This house jumped the arm of the spiral, falling in between two of the lines. And yet, it was among countless locations the GCPD had marked as active with the city’s crime families.

Not officially owned by either of the main families, the house had served, over the years, as a way station for those who ran supplies for the mob. Those supplies varied from simple necessities for connected individuals, to guns, to actual people. More than once, reports from houses just like it had come through as having been just-barely vacated when stormed in search of wanted individuals.

What struck him first wasn’t the chaos of the furniture, or the dents in the walls, the splintered bannister—no, it was the solid red trails leading from the stairs down across the floor, straight for the front door. Gordon stood beside it, scratching at the back of his neck as the Bat approached.

“Good, you came.” The sigh was almost more pronounced than Gordon’s words. “We’ve been seeing too much of each other lately.”

Nodding in agreement, the Bat crouched along the floor to get a better look at the trails. There were definitely two distinct paths, though each ran from at least the top of the stairs down and out the door. _To_ the door, that is. Squinting against daylight he preferred not to encounter, dim as it was late in the day, the Bat noted that the blood stopped quite neatly at the threshold. Some was pooled there, as if the metal strip binding the floor had acted as a squeegee while a body was dragged over it, but absolutely not a drop littered the concrete step on the other side. It was a stark difference.

“Did you already take the bodies?” he asked, straightening to stand back from the trail. 

“That’s just it,” Gordon drew back his overcoat, hands bracing on his hips, “there _weren’t_ any.”

Eyes drawn sharply to the lieutenant, the Bat remained otherwise still. “You said it was homicide.”

“We did, and it is. At least, we’re pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure?” he parroted back, the tone questioning, not-quite antagonistic, but drawing looks from around the scene, nonetheless. 

Unsummoned, a police-credentialed plainclothes individual stepped up, adjusting her clipboard. “From the amount of blood throughout the house,” she began, addressing both of them but seeming to have no trouble meeting the Bat’s eyes in turn, “even from two victims, we gather it’s extremely likely that at least one of them sustained a mortal wound.”

Arm extended briefly in introduction, Gordon added, “Dr. Sougara. Our chief investigative analyst.”

The doctor extended her hand, waiting for the Bat to shake, which he did after an intentional hesitation. “I’m ‘CIA’, but not _that_ kind,” she joked, the lightness in her eyes offering no intimidation for meeting Gotham’s knight. “What’s most curious, here, is that there’s clear signs of a struggle—broken furniture, scraped floors, holes in the walls—but no more blood anywhere but these two lines.” She gestured along the swath, for emphasis. "It’s like whoever dragged the bodies didn’t even get hurt, and definitely didn’t lack the strength to lift them once outside.”

“Or had something to put them into.” 

“Or someone to help,” Gordon added to the Bat’s suggestion, scratching at the poorly maintained scruff around his neck. “He hasn’t seemed against working in teams, yet, just…”

“….Not very good at keeping the team alive,” the Bat finished, to which Gordon assented with a nod.

Motioning the Bat to follow, Gordon stepped away, towards the front of the room near the doorway. “Something else you should see,” he led. “I bet you’re wondering if we found more cards…”

Nodding as much as the cowl allowed, the Bat agreed. 

“Well, we did.” Letting the dramatic tension sink in, Gordon looked over his shoulder at the Bat before drawing back the simple front curtain blocking the window. “It’s, uh… well, it’s gonna be here for a while.”

There was a card, after all, but it wasn’t in an evidence bag, having been discovered neatly placed over a body, or a broken item. It wasn’t among innumerable comrades in scatter piles on the floor. It was, instead, in the window. Not on the sill. Not on the glass, taped or glued. Even squinting against the brightness outside, the Bat could tell that this particular card was _in_ the window pane.

Gordon tapped a finger over the glass. “Yeap. It’s like that from both sides,” he scraped a fingernail across the surface of the glass, showing that it was unbroken. “The window itself doesn’t appear tampered with, and we just can’t figure this one out. 

“I don’t think you’re meant to,” the Bat offered, chalking this one up, for the moment, to showmanship.

From behind them, their analyst hadn’t turned her attention away from their previous discussion. “So if this is like the bank,” Dr. Sougara waggled her pen around at the space, “where are the bodies of his accomplices?”

Turning back to face her, the Bat considered the implications for a moment. “Maybe he’s not done with them, just yet.”


	12. Eleven

________________ELEVEN__________________

It was daylight, and the Bat had gone out. That didn’t really bode well, but John had other things on his mind than Gotham’s crime rate. A few minutes before Bruce had been called out, John’s phone had begun vibrating in his pocket. He had given Jack his cell number, though Jack hadn’t offered one of his own, claiming that he didn’t like to keep a dedicated number, too easy to be watched by government hawks. It had sounded vaguely like run of the mill conspiracy theory, but he didn’t know of many people actually jumping from burner to burner. At least, those whose lives were lived above-board. Even without a steady number to let him plug in a caller-ID, Jack’s texts were instantly recognizable. For one thing, there was never just _one_ text. Initial bursts tended to include at least three, and they were always peppered with emojis.

_Hello sunshine_ , read the first.

_Meet me at this address,_ a map photo followed indicating a rooftop just west of downtown.

_I need to see you_ , the last including a single large and wide-open eye, a pointing hand towards the viewer, a stuck out tongue without a face, and a sheep. John really didn’t know what to do with the sheep, so he left it alone.

_He just left_ , he tapped out in reply, having risked waiting to answer until he was sure Bruce had gone. Experience had taught him that his other partner was impatient. G _ive me twenty_. His pocket continued to vibrate as he got ready, but he didn’t bother looking. All he ever received after agreeing to meet were more emojis, likely more nonsensical than the sheep. Or just eggplants.

With a quick check-in to Alfred, John made it downtown in twenty-eight minutes from his text, rolling his eyes at the time on his phone, and knowing that underestimating would cost him. Bike ditched in a nearby alley, John scaled to the roof of a neighboring building to the north, able to see the target location and know what to expect before joining Jack.

Except that Jack came up behind him as John neared the edge, grasping his arm and nearly getting himself decked in the process.

“Asshole, you said _that_ building,” John complained, working to slow his heartrate. It already tended to elevate when he was near Jack, and startling him certainly hadn’t helped. He didn’t like surprises when he was already sneaking around to begin with. “What gives?”

“And,” the word hung heavy between them, accompanied by a click of Jack’s tongue, his fingers travelling upwards towards John’s shoulder in a ticklingly light dance, “yet here _you_ are. Over… over _here_.” Dark eyes flicked toward the other roof, then back at John. “Curious.”

“It was easier to start here,” John lied, and he could tell that it had no effect on Jack, who hummed noncommittally. “Why are _you_ over here?”

John let himself take stock of Jack while his eyes were elsewhere. As had begun to be the trend of late, he was dressed almost ‘normally’. Though his jeans were an odd shade teetering toward purple, they were still a more standard denim fit, and his military knock-off boots were scuffed and worn. His shirt, however, was too long on one side, the sleeve extending past his knuckles, and the tailed hemline trailing towards his thigh. The other was too short, stopping mid-forearm, and barely meeting the waist of his pants—if he stood still—at the bottom. 

At first, it seemed perhaps Jack had intentionally buttoned it wrong, starting at the wrong interval, but John could see there weren’t even enough buttons to begin with. Some sort of string hung from around his neck, trailing to hide beneath the mess of buttons and material, but before John could think about it further, Jack’s attention had returned to him, snapping John’s gaze back upward to meet it. A silent intensity met him for a brief moment before Jack’s brows rose almost imperceptibly.

“ _You’re_ over here,” he answered, and if John hadn’t known him better, he would have assumed they’d begun a feedback loop. As it was, he understood—Jack had correctly predicted that John wouldn’t come directly to the roof he’d indicated. The fact he’d guessed exactly where he _would_ have ended up, however, sent goosebumps crawling onto his skin. “But now that we’re _both_ over here,” jack continued, invading John’s space quickly enough to cause him to step away, and again until the backs of John’s knees met the roof’s retaining wall, causing him to startle and begin to lose his balance. “We might as well… stay.” Long, bony fingers grasped the zipper column of John’s jacket, effectively stabilizing him. 

Before John had a chance to thank him or even react to _not_ falling backward over the edge of a roof, he was pulled sharply forward, Jack’s head tilting to the side in order to send his lips and teeth directly towards John’s neck. With a sharp inhale, John reached with both hands to grasp at Jack’s sides, annoyed at how easy it was to get shudders running through his frame. He should have known better than to expect a kiss on the mouth. Their meetings weren’t make-out sessions, and though Jack had insisted he was earning them, any such kisses were saved exclusively until the end, when they were ready to part ways.

“Open,” Jack ordered against John’s ear, leaving no room for explanation or argument. The former wasn’t necessary by then, but the latter…

“Uh, it’s daylight, still.” Sunshine, though waning, had a way of making him feel even more exposed.

Jack stilled, then pulled his head back, tilting it further as he peered at John. “Does your cock _disappear_ during the _day_?”

“What?” John blinked, then squinted incredulously. “No, of course not. But it’s light out,” he sent a glance around them, “easier to get caught.”

Brows rising, mouth drawn into a round shape, Jack looked to the sides, as well as behind himself, behind John with a crane of his neck, and then skyward to take in the expanse of clouds and late afternoon light. “By… by whom?” A snake-like smile crawled first to one side of his face, then switched to the other, the corner of his stitch-drawn lips remaining tugged. “The _Bat_ man is noc _turn_ al,” he whispered, as if they might be overheard. “And I don’t see any… news helicopters,” the word came out slowly, with a flourish of his hand, like he had made it up on the spot. Eyes training back to John’s, he repeated, “Open.”

Feeling the blood rush to his cheeks and well on its way to his ears, John swallowed hard, but after a moment, reached to undo the button on his pants, sliding the zipper all the way down.

Not having let go of John’s jacket, Jack made a pleased noise in his throat. “Now, out.” The directions, when not sharp like an order, often came out in a way that felt explanatory, like John wouldn’t know what to do next otherwise. Only when John’s hand had disappeared into his pants and fished his half-hard dick out to open air did Jack’s eyes leave his. Then, they travelled downward, his body becoming concave between them, allowing him a view. 

“Good,” he praised, tugging John’s jacket to indicate he would be maneuvering him. It wasn’t far, only to sit against the edge of the retaining wall, his back to the southern tip of the city. When John’s hands instinctively flew to the concrete to steady himself, an ‘aht’ sound came sharply from Jack in reprimand, and John returned one hand to his shaft. Once John had settled and obeyed, Jack backed up a step, releasing John’s jacket and watching him intently.

“Stroke it,” he ordered.

The game was familiar—John was led to a place that, so far, was consistently semi-public, and directed to touch himself while Jack watched. Not every meeting went the same, and there had been times his dick had stayed in his pants, but payment for the things John wanted from Jack always involved Jack watching him in some way. Sometimes, like that night, Jack seemed distracted, his eyes drifting away from John and towards the city. 

John had learned better than to assume he should stop at that, however. The one time he’d tried, he had earned a very displeased growl, Jack’s hand seizing his own with a rough, squeezing grasp, his lowered voice ordering John to keep going. Part of John knew that he should be more concerned with how Jack acted, that he should examine the fact that he kept coming back to a guy that scared him, but he couldn’t help that all of Jack’s odd behaviors, the strict way he was with John... all of it just turned him on more.

Shudders filled his frame, and his head tipped back before he reminded himself that keeping his weight aimed forward was a wise idea. “I’m close,” he breathed, the warning part of the schedule. On cue, Jack stepped close, crowding John’s space, his body pressed up between John’s knees, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched. Skin to skin was always withheld to the last, a tease John could never quite resist. Fingers sliding quickly over his shaft, John craned his neck in an attempt to close the distance.

“Not yet,” Jack chided, one finger pressed to John’s collarbone.

As punishment for trying to kiss without permission, Jack’s mouth drew within a breath of John’s, so close and yet so far, not closing the gap until John was gasping, shaking through his climax. Then, scarred and gathered lips descended on his, and John greedily pressed forward, abandoning his grasp on the concrete wall for gripping Jack by the back of his neck. Blood teased at his tongue as the move earned him a bitten lip, but it only encouraged him to draw Jack closer, tugging at the vest beneath his jacket. His fingers broke through the thick buttons, digging desperately for his chest, for warm skin to meet them. 

Elation at finally reaching his goal was short-lived—while he’d been aware of Jack crowding into his space, he hadn’t paid enough attention to his own balance, which now had him leaning precariously backward, head and shoulders beyond the plane of the building’s side wall. City sounds rushed dizzyingly fast back to his ears, his mouth pulling back from Jack’s to sputter a protest.

“Jack! What—” Quickened breathing stole his words, or perhaps they merely fell and scattered into the alley, he couldn’t be completely sure. What he _did_ know was that his center of gravity had been shifted enough that, without Jack’s hold, he would be tipping head-first toward the unforgiving concrete below.

“You haven’t _earned_ that, y _et_.” Jack’s teeth clicked hard at the last syllable, the words a bite in response to John’s touch. Something unfamiliar flashed in his eyes, though it quickly morphed into his more playful expression. “Maybe I should… get the _drop_ on you, instead…”

Hands scrambling for purchase, having only Jack’s arms and clothing to grasp, John’s head turned, eyeing the drop. “You wouldn’t…”

Dark brows rose, wrinkling Jack’s pale forehead. “Oh, oh I _would_ n’t?” John’s back was tilted further, his bottom grinding over grit and rough cement.

Letting the tension in his calves go, feeling his heart ready to beat out of his chest, John wrapped his legs securely around Jack’s hips. “You let me go,” he gritted, “and I’m taking you with me.” Breath quick and shallow, John felt a smirk tilt into his own cheeks, adrenaline lighting through his veins, satisfied by the grunt of effort his shift drew from Jack’s throat. It was possible that he could have damned them both with the move, that Jack wouldn’t have been strong enough or positioned right, or that the wall could have been too low for him to keep enough leverage, but John could admit to himself that the risk was part of the reward.

A lilting chuckle floated in the air between them, Jack’s fingers shifting to curl around John’s neck. His gaze held John’s, held as still as their bodies for several moments, their hair and clothes rumpling in a cool gust of a breeze. Before John could have a chance to say anything more, or even adjust for the sudden motion, Jack had tugged him forcible back onto the roof side, his mouth crushed against John’s, his hips—helped by John’s tightly cinched legs—rising against John’s. The kiss was intense, both of Jack’s hands bracketing John’s head and neck, as if he meant to devour John whole. His tongue snaked past John’s before his lips closed on it, sucking firmly enough to nearly tug John’s head forward with it, though he felt himself groan at the sensation, at the promise it often stood for. Jack hadn’t put his mouth on him, yet, but there was a first for everything.

Not for that, this time, despite long, nimble fingers fishing John’s still out-of-his-pants dick into their grasp. Happy enough to feel the grip on his skin, John didn’t realize at first that Jack had already gotten his _own_ cock out, and without warning had aligned the two to stroke firmly in the same strong grip. Heat rushed through John’s body, burning in his ears even hotter as clouds parted to the west, highlighting their overt position with warm sunlight. Sure, Jack wouldn’t touch him in the semi-privacy of a closed and empty bathroom stall, but he’d jerk them off on a city ledge in goddamn sunshine.

John’s dick, however, cared very little whether it was day or night, whether they were outside or in, or if they could be discovered, and was happily gaining back any excitement lost from brief lack of contact as Jack’s hand alternated between loose and tight strokes. 

Breaking the kiss at last, Jack pulled back to watch, once again, first downward, at his hand, at how their shafts were constricted together, and John did too, for a moment, until he eventually followed Jack’s head rising, finding those dark eyes trained on his own, glinting in the sun.

“You’re looking _flushed_ , _sun_ shine,” Jack’s voice seemed to echo in John’s head nearly more than it passed by his ears. There was a laughter behind his breathing, and John noted this was perhaps the first time he’d used that nickname without a certain measure of darkness surrounding them, physically. No time was given for him to contemplate anything at all past processing his nerves, however, with Jack’s hand cinching tightly, pulling firmly, his thumb rubbing over each of their tips with each upward pass. 

It didn’t take long until John couldn’t even warn Jack as he gasped, his hips bucking up off the wall’s edge as he came. Eyes opening, working to catch his breath, he had time to glimpse the heavy look to Jack’s lids, the way his mouth dropped open with just enough space to breathe out a shuddered exhale as he caught up to John. That look changed quickly enough, like a flick of a switch, and Jack once again looked sharp, smug, one corner of his mouth tugging scars into his cheeks. His hand squeezed over their cocks again, a quick, circular motion, and John didn’t realize it was to gather all of their collective mess until all of it was being sent up under John’s shirt and spread firmly over the skin of his stomach. When he made a face, Jack clucked his tongue.

“You can _wash_ it later,” he allowed, and only that, “in… in the sho _wer_ … when you jerk it _off_ again.” He had John pegged, even without ever coming home with him.

Despite the sticky feeling he knew well would only feel worse as it dried and flaked off under his clothing, later, John was only further exhilarated by the firm order, surging forward to try stealing another kiss before they finished. Jack’s finger laid over his lips, however, and he’d drawn his head back, out of reach.

“No-no.” His voice became sing-song. “You’re in debt _now_ , sunshine.” In a swift motion, Jack’s dick was safely tucked back into his pants, and his body was several feet from John. “Next time,” was all he offered as closure before calmly—and more smoothly than he had a right to be—climbing over the far edge of the roof and disappearing all while John still sat, exposed and merely trying to breathe. That just wasn’t fair.


	13. Twelve

_______________________ **TWELVE** _______________________

It had been a long day. Shareholders meeting, board meeting, public appearances, a short lesson with John, and then a patrol once the sun had gone down and fully settled beneath the horizon’s shoulders. It was Bruce’s own fault that he tended not to take proper days off, against his own advice, but the Bat often required the last of his energy reserves. 

And there were new wrinkles in the fabric of his investigations. Investigations that seemed to, more and more, interweave themselves before his eyes. Normally, mob activity was mob activity, and the rest of the city’s issues—though often a much smaller percentage of the pie—kept to their own pace. It seemed too much of a coincidence to him, however, that street kids disappearing and mob heirs disappearing shouldn’t have some sort of relation. To that end, he showed up that night to a ‘family dinner’ of the Maroni family, Sal at the head of the table, his various children and privileged associates gathered around him. There were children present, lending perhaps to a slight assurance that fire would not be so quickly drawn on him.

Curious over how long it might take to be noticed, the Bat made his way into the stylish building through a rear service entrance, timing his moves carefully with the slowed pace of employees after serving the meal. At an opportune moment, with lighting conveniently low in the dining room itself, he sneaked around the edge of a doorframe, tucking himself in a shadowed corner beside a large display hutch. As expected, table conversations continued undisturbed for several minutes, and it was one of the youngsters that managed to catch their eyes on him, stifling a giggle only semi-successfully. A wink from the Bat, and the giggle could not be contained.

“ _Magnus_!” came the reproachful exclamation from an older woman seated near Sal’s end of the extended table. The men had been talking, and childish giggles were no doubt anathema.

Hanging his head, the boy apologized, but in the meantime another had spotted the Bat, and pointed rather than giggling, at which point all eyes turned sharply in his direction. Several men scraped their chairs in a rush to their feet, though Sal’s hand held out gave them pause from further action. 

“Still, now,” he ordered. To the Bat, he directed, “Come from the shadows, won’t you? We’ve only just sat down to dinner.” It was a manufactured calm, and one the Bat knew well. “To what do we owe the… pleasure… of your company?” It was subtle, the shift in the room, but he was aware of the clicking and sliding sounds of weapons being readied for a last resort.

The Bat stepped forward, not joining the space the table occupied, but coming into full view of its occupants. His hands were kept purposefully down at his sides, beneath the curve of his cape, a solid figure if not less threatening. “Sal,” he greeted, receiving a nod in return. There was no need for preamble, no mincing of words, and so he got straight to the point. “Do you have Giovanna’s nieces?”

It was nearly a belly laugh that returned his way. “Now,” Sal wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, folding it meticulously before setting it down beside his plate, “I’m sure you know that the good people of the Gotham City Police would have already honored my threshold with the very same question.” When the Bat inclined his head and cowl, an assent, Sal spread his hands. “So what makes you think, if they’re come and gone, that I got any more to tell _you_?”

Maneuvering to the side, a slow step along the far end of the table, the Bat kept his eyes trained on Sal, though closely monitoring the rest of the gathering. “For one thing,” he grated out, “I’m not the police.” Another wink to the kids, and Sal was on his feet, at last.

“Either finish your purpose, here, or get out of my house.”

Gloved hands rested lightly on the shoulders of one of the older children, not yet a teen but clearly a few years ahead of the giggler. “You’re missing your own,” he assessed, “but if she does not have _yours_ , and you do not have _hers_ …”

“We don’t,” interrupted the woman who’d shushed the boy. “Whatever else you might think, we don’t.” Her abrupt entry into the exchange earned her several harsh expressions, but she did not shrink. The Bat suspected she could hold her own against anyone present.

“But you know who does.” It wasn’t a question, merely a reading of the tension in the room. 

With a brow raised at Sal’s cleared throat, she held her ground. “Not who,” a twist to her mouth displayed her displeasure at the thought, “ _what_.”

Small hands beneath the Bat’s hold on shoulders had begun picking at his gloves, examining the material, clearly unruffled at being leaned on. “The clown,” he guessed.

He didn’t get an answer, not verbally. Sal had stood, cutting off any more exchanges, and guns to either side of the Bat had been unholstered. It was enough to confirm he was correct, and he slowly released the boy’s shoulders, patting the small hands lightly to shoo them away from his gloves. “No need for force,” he soothed, steadily retreating towards one of the interior doorways that led towards the more open rooms of the house. Eyes remained on him, armed men advancing as children were told to get down, but they never had a chance to hit him.

As soon as he was through the open arched doorway, he leapt out of sight, escaping through an upstairs window and closing it again before the shouts even reached his cowled ears.

\---

While the rest of his night had not proven itself too terribly taxing, all things being relative—eyes on the docks, and several alleys of thwarted muggings and assaults—its coming at the end of such a fully-packed day left Bruce running on the mere whiff of fumes when he finally decided to call it quits. 

Slinking back to the manor at nearly four in the morning, he changed in the cave with cold, dank air against his sweaty skin. A yawn stretching the plaintive muscles in his jaw, he rode the elevator up into the dark, still house. John, he knew, had taken the night for himself. It had taken Bruce, in reply, all of his will not to tail him or dictate his path. 

Many nights when he returned, he was greeted by Alfred, who either had waited up or somehow sensed his return and came to check on him. The cave had been empty, silent as he had put away the armor, bodysuit, and gadgets in their proper places. Once the elevator’s gate had been closed, the hidden wall access behind the study’s shelves reclosed to hide its seam, the house also presented itself as such. Smiling quietly to himself, Bruce was glad the older man had finally seemed to take a night off, as well.

Rubbing a small towel through soaked locks where they clung around his head, he padded barefoot over the ornate runner on his way to the east wing’s primary staircase. Halfway to the landing, he paused, the small hairs at the back of his neck rising to stand out against the skin, at attention. With his feet two steps apart, he stood still, listening, feeling the air. There was no sound, no shifting of shadows, no scent beyond the cool marble of the walls beside and around him and that of his own body. For the moment writing it off as heightened nerves left over from his night out in the city, he eventually let out the breath that had been held captive in his throat. If he were imagining things in his own house, it seemed a night’s sleep, if he could manage it, would do him some good.

The rest of the walk to his bedroom was quiet still, uneventful, and the tension in his shoulders had eased by the time he pushed the thick wooden door closed behind him, the click of its latch echoing in the still of the room. Undeterred by the dark, familiar as he was with the space, he tossed away the towel, its soft _fwop_ of impact with the floorboards assuring him he had overshot the area rug, as intended. Leaving sweaty clothing on carpet or upholstery tended to earn him gentle—or, at times, not so gentle—rebukes from Alfred. A small, fond smile tugged at the corner of Bruce’s lips at the thought of them. 

Making his way toward his bed, he debated the conflicting merits of choosing to shower right then or attempt to get his rest beforehand. Not terribly sleepy as it was, he opted in favor, lifting off and tossing his shirt to join with the towel on the floor—ginger in his movements, minding the pair of slightly bruised ribs that blocked his full range of motion—before stepping into the bathroom.

Being doused with water alone would reawaken most, but Bruce left the lights off, stepping carefully into the shower stall and clearing at least the worst of the sweat and grime that settled so quickly between his skin and the suit. Once clean, he stood still for several moments, resting a forearm against the cool tiles and letting the steady spray rain over his head and shoulders, running down his back in a soothing, rushing heat. It wasn’t quite enough to undo the damage he pounded and wrenched into his muscles on a nightly basis, but it was, perhaps, just enough to sleep on. Reluctantly shutting off the water, he wrapped a clean towel around his waist before walking back out to the dresser near his bed. 

“Stop,” a voice called quietly as Bruce’s hands went to the spot where the towel tucked over itself to secure it around his waist. The single word came with a tone and timbre that was soft, even for its low volume. No others followed.

His first thought was fully devoted to mentally kicking himself for missing it, for letting his guard down at the wrong time. Bruce froze, the terrycloth material still in his grasp. The voice had come from behind and to his right—the chair by the window, he surmised, too low to the floor to have its owner standing. Had they been waiting for him? And, if so, how long? His next thought, however… “Where’s Alfred?”

"Safe," came his assurance. "Sound," was added after a moment of palpably tense silence. There was something about the voice that had the smaller hairs along Bruce’s skin rising up once again, something that pinged his memory, despite the almost certain alteration being applied to it. It was doubtful the intruder wore anything over his face, from the clarity of the sound, but attempts to change it were clear, nonetheless.

Though the room was unlit and the night deep, a small glow of moonlight filtered in through the windows, their heavy curtains not yet drawn. At times, Alfred left them open in a simple effort to force Bruce to greet the day when it began—that is, of course, if Bruce did not close them on his own first, should he remember before passing out for the night.

In the soft and faint illumination finding its way past the glass, and indirect light passing the wrong direction from the bathroom, Bruce could see the mostly-silhouetted outline of a man seated where he had expected, in the chair in front of the window. Though the man’s face aimed to the room, it remained too much in shadow in his relaxed posture; head leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, each arm resting lightly over the chair’s upholstery and wood. 

Following the initial few, all manner of thoughts ran quickly and in a stumbling cacophony through Bruce’s mind in a matter of seconds. Who was this man? What did he want? Why did he choose to invade Bruce’s private bedroom at the manor? What must he be thinking, finding a billionaire not arriving home until the deadest hours of night? Was he there for Bruce or…

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit?” he served across the room, turning his body fully parallel to the edge of his mattress to face the man, arms slowly rising to cross over his chest. Sudden movements while being watched in near-darkness were usually a poor choice. 

As if in a parroting of the motion of Bruce’s arms, the man rose from his position in the chair, standing with his feet widely set, hands slipping into pockets with the soft _zshhh_ of fabric. For a moment, he remained silent, his form unmoved, but then he did a curious thing. Rather than answering Bruce outright, the man turned, reaching over the chair with one arm to push out one of the smaller, individual square windows that made up the bottom portion of the glass panes.

With the sounds of crickets now joining the atmosphere of the room, the man withdrew his other hand from his pocket. Little else preceding it, the tiny flame that flicked to life with a sliding click of a lighter seemed almost blinding in its sudden birth, as it smoldered embers at the end of a cigarette. Bruce watched it illuminate the man’s face as he sidestepped into the edges of the bathroom’s light, and his own eyes widening as his face went slack, then tensed.

He suddenly had both fewer and many, many more questions.

\---

Earlier that day, the door to the copy supply closet had clicked closed behind his shoulders. "Shouldn't this be reserved for secretaries or something?" John asked him. 

Bruce had just enough time in between his shareholders meeting and the upcoming board meeting to squeeze in a little face-time with John. With such a short window, he had already decided that that ‘face time’ would include actual face-to-face time. In the spirit of that thought, he pressed his lips to John’s the second he had finished speaking, cutting off any further words for a moment as he tasted the warmth of his mouth. He would take those kisses over talking through his façade any day. Who wouldn’t?

Chuckling in his throat as he pulled back to leave only an inch or so between them, the closet allowing for more but not bothering to move away from the door just yet, Bruce settled his hands on John’s sides, sliding under his suit jacket. "I think you've seen too many movies..."

"I think you haven't seen _enough_ ," John accused, his weight leaned against the door. In the back of his mind, Bruce hoped its structure was thick enough to be at least slightly sound-proof. In other parts of his mind, he wasn’t certain he actually cared.

"We should...” John continued, letting out a few words in between firm attacks on Bruce’s lips. “Mm… Fix that... you know." A just slightly smaller set of hands had found their way to unbuttoning Bruce’s jacket, sliding it completely off his shoulders, bunching it around and over his elbows as leverage to tug him closer, their bodies pressed tight. 

"What?"

John widened his stance, spreading his feet apart and making more room for Bruce’s torso to settle against his as his frame was kept tilted. "You,” the grip shifted to include Bruce’s belt, strong and nimble fingers easily keeping their hold on both sets of material, “not having seen many movies." With a well-angled tug, Bruce had to stumble slightly on his feet as he collided with John, his cheeky grin echoing on his face as their hips met.

"What about you?” A little more difficult with his arms still partially trapped, Bruce raised a hand to stroke the backs of his fingers over John’s smooth cheek. "When did you find the time?"

A soft snort answered him, first, followed by a laugh that didn’t ring true with amusement. " _Time_ was never the problem." Eyes turned down, John moved his attention to Bruce’s neck, blazing a hot path from the corner of his jaw up to his ear, behind it, and down over the tendons connecting to his shoulder. Little bites accompanied the move, and the grip on his belt loosened suddenly only to be traded for John’s fingers sliding beneath it as they stroked over his waistline.

 _Ah, of course._ Understanding if only by logic and not the shared experience, Bruce nodded, though he was careful to keep his neck in reach for more attention. The touch of John’s teeth sent shivers over his skin, and a rumble through his throat. "Sneak in, then?" he clarified, imagining John and other boys like him swindling their way into graffiti-stained and popcorn grease-soaked theaters in the less savory portions of the city. Even so, the thought would have thrilled him as a child.

"Fuck yeah, we did.” Heated breath puffed rather harshly over the edge of Bruce’s hairline. “Had to be careful which ones to do it at, though,” he continued, running the tips of his fingers still idly beneath the line of Bruce’s belt. “The ones they paid the least attention to, though, those you could get a double feature in.” 

“Hide around for two?”

John made a noise of quasi-agreement. “Well, yeah, but we’d sit in the back and… you know…” his voice trailed off, though the object of his focus clear as his hand spread out, covering the front of Bruce’s pants. 

“I see,” Bruce breathed, sliding his feet apart on the floor to allow John better access. 

Nose tucked against the start of Bruce’s shoulder, John worked his fingertips along the material of Bruce’s shirt, gathering it so that at last it came untucked on the side, allowing slender digits to slide over bare skin. The motion elicited a small sound of appreciation from John.

For his part, Bruce stepped closer still, pressing John’s body firmly against the door, turning his head to reclaim his lips. “Careful,” he nearly whispered, lips brushing John’s as he spoke, “or I’ll have to have you right here, right now.” He could feel his own arousal beginning to swell significantly inside his slacks, aware that it would be fairly noticeable should he leave the supply room at that moment. In close proximity, it was clear that John would be having the same issue.

“You weren’t already going to?” John spoke as he avoided another kiss. “ _That’s_ disappointing…” 

A groan rumbled out of Bruce’s throat, and he couldn’t hold himself back from roughly squashing his body to John’s. Arms shaking his jacket out of John’s grasp, he shucked it and palmed his ass even as the press of their bodies left little room for his hands between it and the door. No more sass could come from John’s mouth as Bruce harshly stole every millimeter of its surface, delving his tongue past already slightly-swollen lips to pass over the other’s. Breathing harshly through his nose, he hummed in pleasure as slender fingers gripped his torso and a shaky, desperate grind of John’s hips sent shocks through him. 

In a blur Bruce chose not to fight against, John had pushed off against the door to spin them both around, trading places to press _Bruce’s_ back against the door with a muffled thump of its impact. Willing to let him, Bruce relaxed against the door as John took control, grinding his hips once more as he kissed so deeply the back of Bruce’s head connected with the door. The sound wasn’t loud enough to out them, but John pulled back even so, a breathy chuckle filling the space between them as it opened up.

“You,” he let out a panted breath, “have a meeting to get to.”

Bruce felt his lips press firmly into a line. “You knew I didn’t have time,” the accusation slid from his mouth even as John’s hands slid from his skin, “and still you teased me.” A smirk lit John’s face as he carefully straightened and tucked Bruce’s shirt back into place. “I’m proud.”

With a wink and a pat to Bruce’s ass, John plucked his jacket off the floor, handing it to him. “Later,” he promised with a comparatively much lighter and gentler kiss to Bruce’s lips, “when we’re both home, later.” 

“You go,” Bruce waved his hand when John nodded towards the door. “I have to settle the hard-on in my pants if I’m going before the board.” 

“I hear there’s ice in the freezer in the lounge,” John practically chirped, his expression cruelly cheerful. He was going to get it, later, whenever ‘later’ came.


	14. Thirteen

_______________________ **THIRTEEN** _______________________

With Bruce occupied with meetings, and in order to complement his home studies, John planned to spend the morning in the upper offices of Wayne Tower.He was set to meet Jack after sunset, and had already called Father Reilly to make sure it was okay to visit the boys that afternoon. 

Packed away in a zip-binder within his messenger bag were the paper briefings from the manor, as well as some recent shareholder and board meeting minutes John had convinced a couple of the executive secretaries to copy off for him. There were two in particular that he tended to seek out for help. Both were women, and while he wasn’t entirely _dis_ interested in girls, his flirting performance with them was much more for show and practicality than it was for personal satisfaction. Either way, it worked. Being considered ‘cute’ was its own asset, at times, and being around Bruce had helped him learn some city ‘charm’.

He spent several minutes spent in front of a wide bank of windows on the higher floors. Rooftops in the low-rise sections of the city were great for a view, in their own right, but there was nothing to compare to the sight of the city laid out beneath him, all of its square and rectangular roofs presented like a gigantic keyboard. It probably appeared cold to most people, even many that lived in it, but John knew that each spot had a life of its own, even beyond the ones it housed. Literally and figuratively, it helped him gain perspective—from above, each building held life, some much more vibrant in the so-called ‘rough patches’ than in those around the Wayne high-rise.

After adding a vending-machine chicken wrap to his haul, John made his way to the lounge on the accounting floor. While more people filtered in and out of it than some of the others, it had the comfiest wheeled chairs, and that had been enough to decide it for him on an earlier search. 

“Is that Wayne’s charity case?”He had only been seated for what felt like a few moments before the words flittered across the linoleum. 

“So I’ve heard,” chimed a second voice, equally carefully hushed. There was other conversation in the room, all of it idle, some others naturally even involving Bruce’s name, but even without his own being uttered, John knew he was being discussed.

“Hardly looks old enough to _drive_ , let alone play at businessman.” If he hadn’t been sure before, he certainly was after that. Sipping coffee from the surprisingly cheap paper cups available in the lounge, the two men were undoubtedly unaware that John could hear them, unless they were a particularly abrasive sort of rude. A surreptitious glance out of the corner of his eye identified two suits at the coffee machine that did not belong to the usual crowd for the room. 

“He hit eighteen, didn’t he?” the second and shorter man, his voice deeper-set and more suited to the low tones he tried for, stirred more sugar into his cup. “Wasn’t there a party… or something…” A pause purposed for a sip allowed him to trail off the words as his tense-postured fellow nodded in agreement. John shuffled his papers, to keep up the appearance of distraction. “Why do you suppose Wayne is keeping him on, now that he’s aged up? I doubt even Gotham’s press would crucify him for letting the kid out on his own now.”

Though he couldn’t be sure, from the distant view, John was fairly certain he could _hear_ the eye roll in the other man’s lisp. “The positive publicity, obviously. The longer he keeps another castoff, the better he looks in the papers. And the less they pry at his private life for other dirt, since they have something to talk about already.” The last was spoken nearly into his coffee cup, his eyes rather obviously on John. Maybe they were sure he couldn’t hear them, but they certainly weren’t concerned about being obvious to nearly anyone else. 

“Always keep them talking, right?” Now they were both looking directly at John as he made notes on a half sized legal pad. A long-range microphone would have been useful to take some of the effort out of eavesdropping, muscles around his ear tense at remaining perked, but he didn’t tend to keep stalking tools in his daytime bag. At the thought, he had to wonder if Bruce ever did. His concentration nearly broke as he stifled a smile; of course Bruce did, he was _Bruce_. In fact, Bruce probably hid them in _John’s_ bags.

A casual reach into one of the smaller pockets confirmed he had some options that wouldn’t help him right then, but perhaps another time.

“Ex _act_ ly.” As if the conversation itself weren’t enough, the word drew out in a nasal hum, grating on John’s ears even from across the room. 

John was seriously tempted to speak up, to let them know he could hear every word, to see the looks on their faces when they realized they’d been caught, but it didn’t quite seem worth it. For one thing, they were embarrassing themselves well enough on their own. Besides, if they thought he couldn’t hear anything, maybe they’d say something stupid that _wasn’t_ about him, and he’d get a bit of dirt out of it. Dirt could be valuable, or at the very least useful.

“Well,” cup set down, the shorter of the pair picked through a shallow basket of fruit, touching every single item before deciding on a palm-sized orange, “maybe Wayne will make some better decisions if he’s got young blood giving him ideas.”

“You think jailbait over there is going to be _better_ at running a multi-billion-dollar company?” The epithet was punctuated by a languid tilt of the man’s head in John’s direction, a privileged sort of obvious to match his whining intonation. 

“Jailbait, huh?” Had he been closer, John believed he would have heard a snort to accompany the way the shorter man’s face twitched. “Already interested, from one in-person view?”

“I didn’t say _that_.” The man’s posture straightened following a bristling, hip that had been casually leaned against the edge of the lounge’s counter pulling away as his feet shifted. “He’s just young, that’s all.” A ‘wow, gross’ found its way into John’s written notes in lieu of physically rolling his eyes.

“He is… And he’s young from the streets. A kid like that has a better chance of understanding how this city _really_ does its business than a trust-fund snob who lives in a mansion outside city limits and only sees the office-end of things.” An undertone accompanied the observation, one that had John wondering if either the taller man had experienced the streets himself, or been one of the dangers kids like him faced.

“There’ll be nothing _left_ of his precious trust fund if he doesn’t _enterprise_ the Enterprises.”

A stifled giggle sounded from a woman at a table near the two men, and he pointed a finger away from his coffee cup toward her, acknowledging their shared joke. 

“Anyway,” the sibilant man spoke around his cup, “he’s too… squeaky.” A clench of his free hand, John could imagine he envisioned a noisy dog toy in his grip. “He doesn’t understand how this city’s money was _built_. Neither did his father, from all I’ve heard.” The last was more under his breath, and John strained more to hear the exchange, the man no doubt more aware of his surroundings after being overheard.

Stirring more sugar—a lot of it, John noted—into his cup, the other man pursed his lips. “Yet he built quite a lot for himself.”

“Who, Thomas?” A breathy snort. “He didn’t do it clean,” more teeth than breath, “he just didn’t want to see how all of his polite little connections fed webs down into the city’s… foundations. We all know who really guides the money in and out of Gotham, and it isn’t goody two-shoes rich trust-fund babies, or their kids.” Coffee cup apparently empty, a sharp squeeze crushed the cardboard, and the remains were tossed neatly into a nearby open waste basket. “It’s insulting, a disrespect to the system that got him where he is, and one of these days,” a raised finger for emphasis, “it’s going to get him ousted, ruined, or killed,” spread hands, “…and would that be so bad?”

His conversation partner didn’t take the bait, at least in any overt way. He merely kept on sipping what had to be nearly more sugar than coffee, by that point. John felt his mouth start to twist, imagining the crystalline texture it must have, and instead turned it into a faux frown at his notes, circling some items with a pen. They would be useful to look over more, later, anyway, so it served dual purpose for the moment.

“And in any case,” the stilted hiss continued, more confident in his subject matter and so less hushed, “he can’t see the future that’s shifting the game. That new player in town, you know the one,” John rested his jaw into the palm of his hand, seeming more relaxed but cupping sound towards his ear, “the one gumming up the works and clowning around. I heard he killed one of Falcone’s favorite doormen, and got away with it. He’s got to be one crazy son of a bitch if he’s running around this city, fresh off the ferry, causing this kind of trouble and is still alive to change the big men’s plans. Wayne’s got nothing on Mystery Clown Man.”

Even with the casual motion, John was immediately aware that he’d drawn the eyes of the second man. His posture had shifted, the weight distribution to his feet having changed, and his shoulders were squared more solidly in the direction of John’s table. The others close to the pair had trashed their debris and left, leaving only John on one side, the men in the middle, and a couple of half-full tables on the opposite side. “He could be listening,” he muttered quietly, possibly nodding or jerking his head at John, it was too difficult to tell which from his peripheral.

“Hey _John_!” the other sent out in a stage whisper, a similar decibel to their conversation. A test. As an answer, John remained still, not flinching, not reacting in the slightest, and only shifting his papers, making notes in the margins. “See? He’s in his own little world over there.” A hand waved in dismissal, but the louder mouth must have taken the warning closer to heart, as with one more coffee cup tossed aside, the men made their way out the opposite set of doors. 

John waited three breaths, then slipped his papers and notepad into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder on his way through the closer doorway. A peek into the hall showed the men retreating, headed for an array of offices they’d perhaps come from earlier. For all of the caution that led them out of the lunchroom, not a single glance was spared behind them until they were headed into an open office. Having seen the shift in trajectory early enough, John was able to duck into an empty copy room before the more cautious of the two could stake out the hallway, waiting another breath before continuing towards the door into which they disappeared. 

Since the hallway was otherwise empty, John was able to stand less conspicuously against the wall outside, though he was grateful that a water fountain was set into the wall beside where he stood, giving him a possible excuse, should he need it.

“—need to be more careful,” filtered out towards John’s ear, a half-sentence. “If you get too big of a big head over all of this, it’s going to blow up in your face. In _our_ faces. Your spot on the board won’t help you, if your involvement were to get out.”

An incredulous turn came over the louder man. “Get out how?”

Quickly but smoothly leaning down, John took a lingering drink from the fountain as a group passed by. His position wasn’t smart, nor sustainable, so he slipped a hand into his bag, thumbing the felt-covered mini-mic he’d discovered onto the edge of the doorway as he turned to head away. Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he plugged earbuds in, putting them on as he walked. To anyone else, he only seemed to be listening to music, common enough, but instead, the men’s conversation filtered clearly into his ears.

“—so cavalier—”

“Look,” interrupted again, “even if they did, it’s meaningless. The tankers are set, and we’ve buried the ties to the manufacturer for that military project.” 

John paused on his way into an elevator, something in his mind pinging just out of reach, but the voice was continuing, its pace of breathing changing as he must have been moving around. 

“…If the cops didn’t catch up a year ago, what makes you think they’ll catch on now? All the right people are bought and paid for, tucked into the right pockets. It’s golden.”

“You tell me not to worry,” the calmer man’s voice defensively returned, “but that’s what you _pay_ me for… to be the one who worries about the angles. I don’t think they can all be covered with a crazed pair of vigilantes shaking things up.” There was a pause in which neither spoke, though John could hear the echoing creak and click of the office door closing, indicating the pair had left the room. Their steps began clicking away, and the close of the discussion was much fainter as it met John’s ear. “I have as much invested in this as you do.”

\---

He didn’t have time to talk to Bruce about what he’d overheard. Instead, he made a few quick notes on the paper pad in his bag, shooting off a text that they needed to talk later. Bruce would be stuck at the office for much of the day, and John had several other things planned for his own.

It was a very different experience to roll up to the boys’ home on his own, to park his motorcycle in the alley between the building and its neighbor, to be free of the place even as he returned. He could hear the echoing impacts of basketballs against the rooftop, faint shouts. Through the doors, he touched the banister on his way up the staircase that rose immediately inside, the finish faded from its top from the daily use of dozens of hands, big and small. His first stop was with Father Riley, to check in. It shouldn’t have surprised him that the man’s office looked just the way it had when he’d lived there, but it did, anyway. John had changed so much since leaving that it felt strange to have everything the same, coming back. 

Despite having kept mostly to himself while living at St. Swithin’s, there was an unmistakable connection between John and the other kids who found safety within its walls. He’d gotten himself into more fights and arguments there than he could count, but when it came down to it, any of the boys within the orphanage’s walls would defend any of the others to an outsider. That is why he came back, why he knew he _could_. 

That, and he had gotten lucky, hit the jackpot of jackpots in gaining Bruce’s attention; it wasn’t so simple for the others, and rarely even good. Some of the kids who came in young were placed with fosters, but for most of them, just like it had been with John, St. Swithin’s was the last resort of case workers who didn’t know what else to do with the files on their shelves. It was a dead-end, even with the Wayne Foundation assistance. 

Jimmy, the kid John hoped was in-house when he arrived, was a prime example of how it all worked out. His dad was a dead-beat, hadn’t been around since before the kid was in preschool, and it had only been his mom and little brother Mark, just a baby back then. Jimmy was in second grade now, having lost his mom to a heroin overdose a couple of years earlier. While their paths hadn’t crossed much when John had still lived there, the kid looked up to him, now, and John was teaching him how to shoot a better basket. A makeshift basketball court had been installed against the fence that hemmed in one of the building’s flat rooftops.

“If you bend your knees just a little,” he advised, demonstrating with a ball in his hands, “you can get a higher throw when you straighten them and let go.” Balancing the ball over his head, knees slightly bent, John pushed off the ground as he let go, propelling the ball toward the net. Its impact on the rim sent an echoing set of drumming sounds against the brick walls of the building, followed swiftly by the ringing jingling as it passed through the chain-link net, and then the bounce as it fell to the blacktop. Gathering it up and dribbling slowly as he walked back to Jimmy, he jerked his head in the direction of the fence-mounted net. “Wanna try it that way?”

With a quiet nod, Jimmy bounced his own ball, soft echoes against the building as he got himself set. Concentration showed on his face as his jaw tightened, long bangs thrown out of the way with a practiced toss of his head. The feathery locks were perfect for hiding behind, any other time; John knew the trick well. With less than perfect form, Jimmy raised his arms, forgetting the push from his feet. The ball made a solid arc, but fell short of reaching its goal. 

Extending an arm, John caught it, bouncing it back to him. “Good start.”

They went through it some more times, a few going through the net, a few caught by John, a few going far wide. As John explained to him, getting his form down was more important than making every shot in practice right then.

“We have a curfew, now,” Jimmy told him, grabbing up the ball to put it away, running the tips of his fingers along the flat grooves that made up its design. “Too many kids are disappearing. They don’t talk about it, not right to our faces, but we know that’s why. We can see it in their eyes, like they think we’re gonna just disappear, too, if we go outside at night.” Jimmy’s hands threaded together, tightening. “But the quiet is worse. You can feel it, like a current, through the whole school.”

John had heard about the precautionary rule, already. He placed a hand lightly on Jimmy’s shoulder when the boy’s arms shook, the line of his gaze dropping down, unfocused. “We’ll figure it out,” John promised, knowing that he probably shouldn’t. “None of you boys are going to get taken.”

Sudden movement startling John, Jimmy turned to look straight into his eyes. “Some of them already have been, even though they’re still here.” When John questioned, he continued, “Their eyes… they look dead, already, like,” he paused, eyes trailing to the side, “like something out there’s already drained them, without having to kill them.”

A chill ran through John’s body. He knew the look Jimmy was talking about, and he’d been seeing it more and more with recent visits. It was cold, like a fire had gone out. And not just at the orphanage. More and more kids were skittish of even familiar faces around the streets, and according to their scanners and intel ‘Gotham’s Finest’ had next to nothing in leads. When most of those who were taken were homeless, the priority just wasn’t there. No family to advocate, to push, no case closed. Just another file in a box on a shelf. Even Bruce and he were having trouble finding leads. Though they tried, none of them panned out. Other than the fact that they were mostly homeless and relatively young, easy targets, there were no other patterns.

Kids at St. Swithin’s weren’t homeless, at least in a manner of speaking, but the majority of them had either recently been, or had a couple of years to look forward to going back to being so. John remembered all too well getting spooked by anything and everything going on in the streets, just outside their walls.

All told, he spent close to two hours with Jimmy, both outside and back within the orphanage’s walls. Other boys were with them then, needing attention as much as help on their homework. There was a hunger in the way they swarmed visitors they knew, and a dampened light in their eyes. The look was all too familiar to John, and the flame that was so dim there wasn’t one he was willing to let be snuffed out so quickly.

He hadn’t gone straight to see Jack after he’d left the boys’ home, though that had been his original intention. His exit had been more attended than his arrival, once the kids inside heard he’d come on his own motorcycle. With a small crowd crammed together on the sidewalk, John made sure his engine was obnoxiously loud as he pulled away, spotting waving arms when he turned at the next street. 

Light still plied its way between high rises, adding thin stripes to the greying streets. Their meeting was set for after sundown, leaving John with time to ride through the city, feeling the air as it gradually cooled, rushing through his clothes to bite at his skin. Taking the lower levels, first, he made his way back uptown, making for the docks near one of the bigger bridges to watch the sun finally dip behind the rest of the outer city’s buildings across the river. It was a serene scene, despite the sights and smells that made it inescapably a city scene. Lingering just a little longer past sunset, something in John tugged at him to savor it.

\---

There was a normalcy to it, a normalcy that belied its danger. It wasn’t the same flavor of danger that presented itself in the underground clubs they frequented, the times Jack led him to try different drinks and ‘enhancers’, but it still had its risk. The city stretched out in front of them, behind, to the sides, and also sharply below. With feet hanging loose over its edge, John sat atop an Old Town roof with Jack at his side. Each of their boots lay paired up behind them, along the interior bottom edge of the wall upon which they sat. 

The simplicity in the position reminded John of when he would sneak up to the roof of St. Swithin’s, even after they had figured out where he went and had locked the door to the highest roof access. There were the lower levels, of course, the fenced-in court and faux blacktop exercise areas he’d just come from, someplace safer than the streets they had been saved from, but there was no freeing feeling in standing inside a fence with everyone else. That, and he could see much farther from the very top. 

There were plenty of kids at the home with him, then, that could have picked the lock, as well, but none of the others had seemed to find enough value in half-hanging over the edge of a rooftop. For John, as it did now, it had cleared his mind. The air felt different, smelled different, like the wind took it from somewhere far outside the city, far from everything, and blew it over his face, through his hair. It felt as if he and Jack might as well have been a thousand miles away, in some quieter place, instead of under a water tower with tenements below their feet. For its part, the Manor might as well have been on a different continent—both the building and its other occupants. 

A physical quiet had settled its way between and over them, as well. His nights now were more often than not spent helping the citizens of the city, and yet John found that, for the most part, he didn’t enjoy the company of other people. There were pretenses, expectations, judgments, and the facades became heavier and heavier the longer they had to be worn. Sitting beside another warm body in peace was unheard of in his life, save more recently with Bruce. Contrary to the rest of the world, John felt comfortable in Jack’s presence for those times, and it was without a mask, or so it felt, that he sat and shared the experience with his friend. It allowed his mind to focus on smaller things, like the rough texture of the bricks beneath his fingers and palms, the way it bit into his skin, leaving a pattern of tiny dents, he knew without looking. 

Shoulder bumping John’s, Jack tapped at the phone in John’s pocket. “How many, how many _hour_ s are _mi_ ne tonight?”

Rolling the same shoulder, John thought a moment, tugging up the brown takeout bag he’d brought them. Neither had touched it for some time, and the food inside was likely a bit cold, but he was hungry. “I need to go home, eventually… it’d be suspicious if I was out the _whole_ night.”

“Some _one_ might go… go _look_ ing for you.” It wasn’t a question, and it left unsaid just _how_ that Someone would do so.

John nodded. “I’ve got to consider him, too.” Jack, on the other hand, never seemed to have a deadline on which to end their visits. It was always John’s life that broke the connection.

“What about you?” John asked, his mouth half full of burger. “No family in the city that makes it home?” John’s situation had already been quite clear, even before Jack had known about Bruce. After that, well, his life had turned public enough for everyone in Gotham who read or watched any sort of news to know his ‘situation’. 

Family wasn’t always blood; John had known that long before the foster systems, long before Bruce. Of course, there were those that didn’t keep connections, those that existed outside the scope of other people, but, in John’s experience, those kinds of people didn’t tend to make it very long on their own. No matter how many times they’d met up, John hadn’t been able to read how well Jack was _really_ doing. Some aspects of how he came off made it seem like he couldn’t possibly be a street kid, couldn’t be living that desperation and uncertainty. And yet, he knew all of the struggles, the right way to say things, the way John understood them.

A hum left Jack, then. It took several moments for him to say anything more. 

“Mm,” came first. Jack wasn’t much for hamburgers and in general John rarely caught him _eating_. Tonight, he’d taken the offer of a few of John’s curly fries, remarking that they were more interesting than regular fries, but had left the rest of the bag untouched. “ _Fam_ ily isn’t a—a word I _use_ ,” he spoke in what John assumed was his answer. Either way, he didn’t add anything into the silence right away. “ _Pe_ ople aren’t _ho_ me.” John disagreed, but didn’t voice the opinion. 

“I _know_ you have a _ques_ tion,” Jack broke the second stretch of silence first, though still at length. His face was aimed out over the lights and distance, but his eyes tucked into their corners to glance at John when he looked.

“A question? About what?” John returned. In truth, he had any number of questions in general for Jack. The announcement, however, had come out of seemingly nowhere in the quiet space of time they hadn’t been talking, and the previous conversation didn’t connect.

“Mm- _hmm_ ,” Jack hummed at first, eyes rolling to aim forward, his body still. “A _ques_ tion,” he began again after a moment, tongue flicking out over his lips in between, “about my _scars_.” The last word was drawn out slowly, with careful intention. Small movements shifted the profile of Jack’s cheeks, tics that John had learned were as much a part of his face as the gathered bits of skin that lined it. In his lap, his hands shifted in one another’s grip, clasped loosely, not the nervous twisting that often found John’s fingers. The way in which they drew closer, fingers interlocked, and spread apart again, only to repeat, resembled a slowly beating heart.

Searching for the correct words, it took a few moments for John to speak. “I do,” he acknowledged, letting the words sit on their own in the air for a handful of seconds, “but... it’s not a question I would ask without knowing you were ready to answer it. So,” he shifted the angle of his back, straightening its posture as he looked out over the rooftops again, giving Jack the privacy of not being stared at, “if you’re ready, I’ll listen. How did you get them?” Many theories ran through his mind, all of them having been thought through at least once before, and a few having risen above the rest as the more likely.

With an almost imperceptible nod, Jack seemed satisfied that he’d asked. “My _fa_ ther,” he drew out, flicking his tongue out over the side of his mouth, “was a _drunk_.” The last word spat from his mouth, an accusation even in the man’s absence, and John could empathize. He had seen enough drunks to know what they were capable of, but he kept his silence out of respect.“When he’d get _ang_ ry, he’d take it out on my _moth_ er, with—with,” he made shaking hand motions along his torso, his face, arms, and legs, “ _bruis_ es, and—and _cu_ ts.” His teeth clacked loudly over the ‘T’. 

“So,” he continued, “one _night_ , he has the knife, the _long_ one, from the kitchen. And he—he lays into _her_ , yelling because she got her—her _blood_ on the _car_ pet, so he sets it _down_ , the knife.” Jack paused, turning his head to look at John, waiting until he looked back, catching his eye. Eyebrows rising for a moment, his face remained set, still serious. “I walked _ov_ er, and picked it _up_ …”

John could sense his heartbeat speed up enough for him to feel it in his skin, could hear it in his own ears, and he found his hands tightening together, his lower lip worried between his teeth. Jack’s words all but transported him to the scene itself, for all he could see it unfold in his own mind as he spoke.

Once he turned back, Jack’s eyes didn’t leave John’s, their shadowy orbs barely glinting in the night, appearing more as small black holes leading to an uncertain darkness. One hand rose, tilted away from Jack’s body, fingers curled as if around the very knife of which he spoke. “His hands were, were _bus_ y, _hitt_ ing, _break_ ing, _beat_ ing,” each word was punctuated by a pound of Jack’s fist into the small space of concrete that lay between their thighs, “and as she screamed, so were mine.” 

John’s eyes widened, transfixed on Jack’s, but still tracking the motion of his hand as it slowly twisted. 

“I took it… in, in my _hand_ … and I _stu_ ck it,” his hand thrust forward quickly, sharply, “in _to_ his,” another thrust, “his _stom_ ach.”

A twitch jolted through John’s muscles at the violence of the motion, and it broke the spell of the moment. “You stabbed him?” City noise was a faraway thing, John’s ears imagining a woman’s cries, angry shouts, and the sound of flesh tearing. In the present, physical moment, Jack’s silence was palpable. “What… what happened after?”

“A little, only,” he clarified the first, his pantomime momentarily broken by plaintively spread hands. Leaning towards John, he continued. “He _took_ the _kni_ fe…” Jack rolled his hands around his stomach area, moving them sharply away as if taking something out. “And, and he _grab_ bed me,” slender fingers slipped around John’s upper arm, grasping tightly, too tightly, “and he _pull_ ed me _closer_ …” A yank of his arm, and John was nearly nose-to-nose with Jack, his free hand’s pointer finger against John’s cheek, the edge of his nail just barely scraping against John’s skin. John’s heartbeat quickened, and a rush of adrenaline threatened to send him running. 

“When he’d—he’d _pull_ ed it _out_ of his, out of his _stomach_ ,” the edge of his nail ran down toward John’s lips, “he, he _put it there,_ at my _mouth_ , and he asked me, he asked ‘why are you so _serious_?’” The nail slid to the corner of John’s mouth before striking swiftly outward. “He _cut_. And he asked _aga_ in, ‘why are you so _serious_?’”

Despite himself, too into the story of the moment, John flinched, his head ducking back and away from the ‘attack’. Even so, Jack’s fingernail succeeded in scratching at each of his cheeks, in turn, the line of contact burning in John’s imagination.

Drawing his hand back again, his entire body seeming to retreat, Jack lifted his shoulders in a measured shrug. “He _made_ me _smi_ le, for _ev_ er.” Though the shrug could have been interpreted as a lightening motion, a signal that Jack had moved beyond the weight of what he’d gone through, his voice only lowered, the darkness in his eyes deepening. 

To ease his own shiver as much as the pain in Jack’s posture, John took one of Jack’s hands in both of his, giving it a squeeze. He had questions, wondering what had happened afterward, if Jack had still been stuck living with his father, what had led to his life on the streets, but he kept them to himself. Eyes drifting down, John raised a hand to trace his fingers along the line of scarring from the middle of Jack’s cheek towards his lips. Their pads were kissed far more gently than John would have thought Jack was capable of. Light seemed to split the depths of his eyes and those scarred lips were on John’s, not even pretending to begin so softly. Copper tinged his tongue once teeth ground into his lips, both his own and Jack’s.

City noise faded away from John’s ears... the cars, the distant sirens, the foot-falls; everything that wasn’t his own heartbeat and Jack’s breathing might as well have ceased to exist. His body leaned close, unaware of Jack’s shifting movement until a hand cupped the side of his neck, drawing John deeper into his space. The movement was almost a blur, and Jack’s gaze had turned so intently on his that it took a moment for John to realize that he felt a pinch to his neck.

“Wha—” Working to focus his eyes on more than just the imminently close pair beside him, John was confused to find the world in a blur, a slowly shifting mess of runny edges and dimmed lights. Jack’s face swam before him.

“W _e_ ,” Jack breathed as John felt a cool rush beneath his skin, spreading out in a wave from where he’d felt the prick, “ _we_ are going to _ha_ ve more _time_.” 

City lights glinted off of a syringe as Jack put it away, John’s mind racing and spinning all at once as his body refused to obey his commands. Strong fingers held his shoulders, and John felt himself pulled from the roof’s ledge. Concrete scraping through his clothing was the last sensation he had, as before his back could hit the flat of the roof, the night that never allowed its stars to shine through swallowed the city whole.


	15. Fourteen

_______________________ **FOURTEEN** _______________________

It was the nose that did it. Any combination of or singled out individual feature could be used to quickly identify a person, but the long, straight, and prominent nose that stole most of the small flame’s light left Bruce no doubt in his mind even as the room returned to the shroud of night. Thin, silvery tendrils of smoke wound their way over the man’s fingers on their path to being drawn out through the opened window. 

“At least you listened to _that_ instruction,” a sarcastic tone muttered around the cigarette’s filter.

Ignoring the comment about his towel, Bruce demanded, “What are you doing here?” The question wasn’t entirely accusatory, but even Bruce’s careful composure fell flat in the moment. Coming to him now meant coming to his family, as well. 

The man let out his smoke before responding, an unhurried exhale. “You left.”

“And no one followed me,” Bruce returned, a tilt to his head, “for two years.” Feeling a small ease in identifying the familiar intruder but not foolish enough to let down his guard, Bruce sat down on the corner of his mattress closest to the windows. Long enough, the towel remained cinched around his waist while still covering his legs past his knees. “So what is it, Barsad? What changed that I’m suddenly worth going after?”

A click sounded out of the corner of Barsad’s mouth, a reproach. “What makes you think that you weren’t, before?” When Bruce only spread his hands, indicating the current moment, that the man was only just _then_ in Gotham, the slender frame’s muscled shoulders rose in the barest of shrugs, such small movements a familiar portion of the man’s lexicon of body language. “I am not the first of our brethren to trace your steps from the temple,” he spoke with an upward tick to his mouth, a glint in his eyes that was more than just the small red glow from his cigarette. 

Sitting silently for a moment, his mind replayed over the time since he had come back down from the mountain, since reviving the life of Bruce Wayne. Several men had tailed him from the temple itself, he knew—he had had to fight them off to make it to any manner of transportation not run by the League or its lackeys. Obtaining plane travel had been tricky, but he had made it out of the country easily enough, finding himself halfway across Europe before it seemed anyone made any earnest attempt to give him pause. The last leg back, to the edge of the continent and across the water to home, had been quiet, unattended.

Or so he had thought. 

Just the implication that there had been members of the League watching, following, when he had not been able to sense them sent a chill up his spine. While his training had not been finished when he had left, Ducard had referred to him many times as a star pupil, Ra’s al Ghul himself observing his progress at several points before he made his break. If he was, as he had been told, on-par with or above so many of them, then their presence should have been known to him. That fact, along with the concern over a possible League presence in Gotham, had his jaw grinding tightly.

“You’re evading the question,” Bruce aimed back to the heart of the matter, his words spoken more clearly, with greater purpose. “What changed that _you’re_ here _now_ , after two years of silence?”

“Want one?” The gruff tease came at him from around the filter of Barsad’s cigarette, the soft pack lifted in question.

“You know I never smoked,” Bruce answered, unnecessarily. He was being coddled, reassured with something familiar, and if the man thought he wouldn’t see right through it, then they hadn’t gotten to know each other as well as he’d thought. “Are you going to tell me why you’re really here? Or just blow smoke up my ass.”

A low chuckle traveled through the dark. With a slow exhale, Barsad peered up at Bruce from behind icy irises. “I would like to recruit you.”

Keeping his face and breath calm, Bruce hid a scoff inside his throat, sounding off in his head. “This feels familiar.”

Slender fingers rose upright to stop his words before they had finished. “This is _not_ like before,” the man corrected, a gravity to his words that gave Bruce pause in the banter. Eyes roaming the room for a moment, Barsad held the dimly smoldering cigarette butt between his thumb and forefinger, giving up on perhaps an ashtray hunt and instead crushing it in his palm. 

“How is it different?” Bruce asked, still finding himself impatient at the silence. “Whether I’m pulled in from the mountains or here, the League is the League.” 

Though his body remained still, its silhouette against the windows unshifted, Bruce thought he could see a jump in the man’s jawline, a twitch. “I am not here at the behest of the League.” The final word was more spat out than it was spoken. “Our brotherhood… there has been a schism.”

The news surprised Bruce. Members of the League could be described as nothing if not wholly dedicated. “And you defected?” Bruce inclined his head, curious as to how one of their most devoted soldiers could so quickly abandon his cause. “Tired of Ra’s al Ghul’s theatrics?” Bruce was, of course, well aware of his own use of theatrics, and knew Barsad must be as well, though the younger man did not pick up on the topic.

Instead, cold eyes flashed hot for a moment as Bruce came into the path of a fierce glare, its heat seemingly not meant for him, passing through him. “The Demon’s Head… his _methods_ became questionable. Unbearable.”

A russet brow raised, Bruce’s interest had been further piqued. “Did he finally cross a line too extreme for you, then?” Barsad’s words had felt less in reference to the ideological, and far more personal. “I think you owe me a better explanation, if I’m supposed to seriously consider your offer.” 

The story that followed, however, about a born leader being excommunicated, of found family and a long-lost daughter, felt more fantastic than he had expected. Bruce would have been disinclined to believe much of it, if there hadn’t been so much raw emotion in the man’s voice as he’d spoken. Whoever this leader was who had been shunned, Barsad clearly deeply believed in him. “I suppose you expect an immediate answer,” Bruce spoke after a few moments of silence in between, his voice falling flat in the stilled room. 

New cigarette having burned down to ash and filter as he’d spun his tale, Barsad abandoned it out the window, standing. “No,” his quiet voice breathed. “I will be in the city for the next few days; you can find me in that time with your answer.” 

Before Bruce had a chance to ask any more questions, a noise in the bathroom caught his attention. Though he only glanced for half a second, Barsad was gone by the time his gaze turned back. He should have known better. 

\---

Alfred was his first concern, the moment his mind returned to him, a little less overwhelmed. His old friend was indeed safe, settled in a natural looking sleeping position on one of the lounges on the house’s ground floor. From the looks of it, Barsad had at least taken care not to hurt him, adjusting his body semi-comfortably, even if he _had_ drugged him. A quick check to his vitals assured Bruce that he would be alright until he woke. Leaving a note letting him know _he_ was alright, to find him in the cave when he was awake, Bruce made his way to the secluded elevator. 

While Barsad had seemed sincere in his word that he was mostly alone in Gotham, Bruce did not trust so easily. If there was a League presence in the city, however careful, however secret, there could still be small evidences. Cargo ships from the right ports, any small changes in criminal network activities, he would look for anything to let him know how much of a guard he would need to keep up, how much he was going to need to fight. His steps were measured but swift as he left the elevator, crossing the dampened stone to the console station. The space was the same as he’d left it, the water its usual roar, the shuffling of hundreds of pairs of wings flicking from the rocky ceiling, but something felt off. Perhaps he was being watched, still.

Logging into his system, however, presented him with an entirely different problem.

Rather than the usual screen awaiting his prompts and commands, a single icon greeted him as the screen flickered to life. The sheet image of a small notepad was merely titled ‘readme’; however, the appearance belied the file’s extension—he apparently had a video to watch. His first instinct would have been to call up the security protocols, to see who had been accessing his system, to check the rest of the house and grounds, but nothing was available on the console save that single file.

Jaw tense, he double clicked on the icon, his screen going black for several seconds before flickering with light and color. At first there was only a dull grey visible, a surface too far away to determine any details. Within a moment, there was the tell-tale creaking sound of a hand picking up the camera, and in a blur of sickly green, a messy head of wavy hair came into view. The face that followed it turned Bruce’s expression sour.

“Hel _lo_ ,” the face spoke, his lips taking the entire frame for the word as it drew out. “Don’t worry,” Jack continued, his tone as patronizing as his words, “your uh, _man_ _cave_ is, uh… se _cure_.” An open, gloved palm flashed across the screen, as if gesturing to Bruce’s surroundings, followed by a finger pointing upwards, Jack’s eyes following suit momentarily. “The _ba_ ts are quaint.”

A deep scowl overtook Bruce’s face, and he began forming the conversation he would need to have with John even as the boy on his screen continued to talk.

“Any _pet_ bat nee _ds_ … en _rich_ ment.” Jack’s tongue flicked out over his lips, a wide swath. “So, _we_ ’re go _ing_ to play a _game_. Hide,” he pressed a hand to his own chest, almost but not quite out of the frame of the video, “and, and _seek_.” At the last word, he pointed directly into the lens.

"Oh, and not that you _would_ , but if you _do_ decide to involve Gotham's _fin_ est... Your little—little _boy_ -toy might find your _con_ se _quen_ ces _for_ you. Come and _get_ us." There was a flash of fluorescence, of neon colors blurring together in apparent motion of the camera itself, and with a creak and a flash as the boy's hand filled the lens, the video cut out. There had been a repetitive thumping in the background, and Bruce didn't need any extra instruments to discern that it had been rave music. No attempt on Jack's end could have been made to hide it, for its volume. 

_‘Us’._

Even as he worked his body into the suit piece by piece, mere seconds from his hands touching the computer console, he knew in his gut that there was no way that John was still at the club, if he ever even had been. It was the first stop, however, and if Jack were playing with him, then he'd have to follow his lead until he had anything else. Loading the bike's tracking signal would at least give him John’s last location.

“Master Bruce?” The voice was weak, tired, disoriented, and would have barely registered across the distance between the tumbler and the elevator, if it weren’t for the cave’s natural acoustics. 

Without turning, grateful enough in the back of his mind that Alfred was sufficiently uninjured to make it down the elevator and entrance, Bruce threw his voice over his armored shoulder. “He has John.”

“The bearded man?” Confusion overrode exhaustion in Alfred’s voice.

“No,” the Bat growled, one leg already propped on the tumbler’s runner step, “the boy.” Second foot joining the first, he swung himself into the seat, cape settled behind. The engine thrummed to life as he detected movement beside him. Looking to the side, his cowl greeted him, held aloft by wrinkled hands.

“No running off without this, Master Bruce,” Alfred’s mouth was grimly set, and he patted the side of the vehicle’s outer panel as he stepped backward. “Bring him home safe,” he added, “and yourself.”

Cowl in place, engine revved, the Bat nodded his promise, firing the pulse to jump the tumbler from its platform, through the falls, and out into the night. Stealth through the shadows of back roads, the vehicle barreled through city traffic, narrowly escaping collisions. His tires thudded and complained as they were slid and ground to a stop outside the club, nearly still in motion as the Bat leapt out from the hatch to kick the building’s access door in.

While almost completely muffled by the thick outer walls, the music assaulted the Bat’s ears as soon as he was inside, prompting him to reflexively dial back the aids embedded in his cowl. He stole into the open space, scanning the bar, the floor, the walls, and ceiling for anything that led to Jack and his message. 

A pair of boys who looked too young to drive emerged hand-in-hand from a rusted metal door in the back, and caught his eyes as the door swung closed again. Maybe… The shortest distance was through the main floor, though his progress was slowed at first in an overabundance of bodies to shove aside, most with neon paint decorating their skin, more than a few shoving right back as if he were only a part of their larger debacle. A few grabbing hands even threw portions of his cape up into the air with a whoop from their owners as he passed. 

When he had finally fought his way through the melee of gyrating bodies, the door across the room had closed again, fitting almost seamlessly back into the expanse of matte black paint that dressed the walls. Only a pale neon glow of an outline gave it away, and with a yank he drew it open, revealing the dimly lit room behind it. The space was illuminated primarily by myriad glow-sticks, some black lights, and a few lava lamps set into small recesses along the walls.

The pair of boys must have been alone inside, as the room was now empty. A quick visual sweep told him that this space could easily match where the video had been staged. Another sweep was performed with a small frequency detector that would alert him to the presence of bugs, its monitor lighting up when held in front of the far corner of the space. In addition to the small pin camera he found aimed at the door, no doubt anticipating his arrival, there was a camcorder attached to a shelf by thin strips of Velcro. Upon the camera was taped a note which read, ‘DO NOT TOUCH,’ accompanied by an approximation of the Bat’s symbol. 

Fingers splayed and reaching, the Bat paused as the door was pushed open behind him, a trio stumbling over its threshold, arms entwined. One breathed out an intoxicatedly reverent ‘ _whoa_ ’ as his sneakers squeaked to a stop, the others too busy with their respective lips to have spotted the Bat’s presence. Words were not required—it took only a dark scowl to convince the first boy that the room was unavailable. None the wiser, the boy’s friends were pushed out with mild complaints, and the space was his once more.

Careful in his haste to grab the device, he flipped out the rectangular viewing screen with a setting click and pressed the playback button. At first, there was nothing but dark static, and he controlled the familiar urge to shake it, throw it, or bash it against the wall for failing to help him, as if those actions could somehow encourage it to talk. Patience rewarded, at last a flicker turned into a blurry image, the out-of-focus skyline slowly coalescing into a view from a rooftop, but not just any rooftop. The Bat instantly recognized that particular view—GCPD headquarters. Next, the perspective turned, and he could see the spotlight, its black silhouette illuminated as the light burst to life, the camera’s lens desperately working to refocus and compensate for the sudden shift in brightness.

Balance on the screen attained, Jack stood in front of the light, his arms held up to the sides as if they were wings. As if _he_ were the Bat, instead. He was still for several moments, in which the Bat’s patience waned and his anger grew, before approaching the camera and plucking it from whatever perch it had been resting on.

“Hel _lo_ , and welcome to Act II,” the lilting, uneven voice crackled through the tiny speakers built into the camera’s base. “As you _kno_ w, a good play comes in _three_ , the last bringing out that… that tragic—or heroic— _cli_ max.” The added word sounded closer to a concession than an assessment. “Al _though_ ,” he continued, cocking his head to the side, “Act II is, is _prob_ ably al _read_ y over, by _no_ w…” Staying still, he seemed to think it over for several seconds more before shaking his head, waving his hand frantically in front of the lens. “Never _mind_ ; it doesn’t _mat_ ter.” Pursing rumpled lips, he stared into the camera more directly. “The _poin_ t is,” the ‘t’ hit hard, his teeth clicking over the letter, “ _you_ need to _fin_ ish the story, be _fore_ it finishes with _out_ you.” 

At the screen’s flicker into blackness, the camera shook from the frustrated tension in the Bat’s glove-covered hands. A photo of the roof would have sufficed, but Jack was purposefully drawing each step out. Camcorder and pin cam tucked into a pouch on his belt, he stole out of the back room, holding back the rising distaste in his throat for the establishment and the fact that John frequented its like. No time for hard feelings. This time through the main room, he skirted the crowd to cut time, sliding quickly into the tumbler once outside. GCPD headquarters was several blocks away, and nonsensical as it may have been, the last clue had let him know that there was at least some kind of timing involved in Jack’s game.

The more he found himself traveling through regular traffic, the more attention he drew to himself, but for the moment, a bit of exposure was necessary. Instead of taking the bulky tank to the next location, he ejected its pod, intended only as a last resort, and rode the bike towards the police station. As soon as he had kicked out the stabilizer, a beep sounded from the readout screen, showing a pulsing dot on the grid of center city.

John’s bike.

The two locations were not the same, and the timing was suspect. Even as he fixed the hook to the end of his cable gun and aimed it at the roof’s edge, he ejected a small, programmable drone from the bike, setting it to track John’s signal. Once it arrived, he’d have feedback and a visual of its location and condition. A soft whirring accompanying the palm-sized device’s ascent into the night, the Bat also left the ground, rising to the building’s summit to investigate the clue. However, the space was not empty upon his arrival.

\---

“I told you he’d show up,” called a young woman’s unfamiliar voice from behind the rooftop shadows. “Even if we turned it off.” There were few enough officers allowed on the roof with the spotlight that he could guess from the short list it was one of them. 

Settling his boots firmly on the gritty roof floor, the Bat waited silently until the target of the woman’s words revealed himself. 

“It wasn’t us,” Jim Gordon’s voice sounded even before his face was illuminated by the glow of the surrounding skyline. “We didn’t turn it on, but we did turn it off about thirty minutes ago.”

“Any ideas who it was?” the Bat questioned calmly, his tone betraying none of the hurry that rushed through his veins.

“No one was up here, when we realized,” Gordon began, the night’s breeze ruffling through the longer tufts of hair atop his head which had at one time, no doubt, been neatly combed. “Best we can figure is kids, messing around.” The words were hesitant, hinging on embarrassment. Their tone was understandable; the questions that might be raised due to that sort of incident would be uncomfortable for the department to answer to the public. Naturally, it would raise suspicion on the security of their own building, something the Bat could not care less about at that moment. 

“Or a malfunction,” the young woman—Ramirez, most likely, if she was with Gordon—chimed in, as if she could sense the tension Gordon had breathed into the air. “It could be electrical,” she continued to Gordon’s shaking head. 

The Bat stayed quiet, letting them get out what they needed to as he assessed the surrounding rooftop. The two officers were the only bodies atop the building besides his own, that much was almost just as clear without any aid from electronic instruments. Their natural suspicions would undoubtedly be raised, however, if he were to begin searching for the clues he needed as they watched. Better to let them theorize on their own. 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he spoke again at last, waiting to see if they would stall.

Ramirez opened her mouth to speak, only to close it again as Gordon touched her sleeve. “Give us a minute,” the older officer urged more quietly. He’d been promoted to captain, recently, the city proving to be the undoing of those previously holding the office, and his authority was enough to supersede her curiosity for the moment. A frown creasing her face, she nodded, hesitating with a glance to the spotlight before walking away, disappearing into the station below. 

Left unlatched, the access door was pulled nearly shut behind her, and Gordon waited quietly for several moments before speaking again. “Do you think this is a prank?” he asked, his gaze up at the Bat having turned more intent, gauging what reaction he could get. “Not by teenagers, maybe, but part of our current dilemma? Ramirez and some of the others were kicking around the idea, but I…” he sighed, “I squashed it, at least for now, to prevent panic.”

Of course, the Bat was now fully confident that Jack was behind the troubles they had been seeing throughout the past few months, but to reveal that knowledge right then, to show his hand with John missing, would not only take more time he did not have, but get the police involved in a situation more delicate than he trusted their presence to be able to handle. 

“Was there anything _else_ here?” 

Gordon shook his head, shoving his hands awkwardly into jacket pockets, his forehead wrinkling with uncertainty. “A diversion? Or are we just too jumpy? I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I,” the Bat assured him. “Diversion or not,” he continued, keeping his reasons for agreeing out of the conversation, “I’ll keep my eye on the dark. You should get back to normal, eyes open.”

A nod assuring his ascent, Gordon let out a slow breath. The Bat took the opportunity of the man’s head aiming back towards the access door to leap out of sight as the captain began to say he would head downstairs.

Noting the absence, a quiet chuckle found his voice. The word ‘thanks’ was uttered quietly, though sincerely, and then the man was gone, the roof quiet and truly empty save for the Bat.

The second the door was shut, latched and still, he was a shadow in motion. First, the light itself. Though if the officers _had_ turned it off, it was less likely to have anything left on its platform for him to find. Next, the air vents opposite the spotlight, which sat at an angle that he imagined could have served to have aimed the video footage. At first he saw nothing, the pressure of frustration building inside his muscles and nerves, but then he spotted it.

The glint was tiny, just a reflection, really, and he yanked off a glove to pluck it up with careful fingers.

What he’d seen turned out to be a coin-sized piece of folded up tin foil, secured with a ticked end, almost like a gift wrapping. If this was for him, he supposed that fit the tone. Unsealed, the foil tipped, and a camera card dropped into his opposing palm. The assumption must have been that he would have taken the camera with him like some sort of twisted scavenger hunt. At least he had.

The Bat brought the camera out from his belt, exchanging cards and thumbing the power switch. Through the several moments the screen remained dark came hoarse breathing, throaty, heavy. It didn’t sound like John, and was matched a moment later to a blurry face. The creak of the camera shifting accompanied an exaggerated throat-clear, and Jack’s scarred mouth filled the frame before backing up. Behind him was dark, dim, and flat in color, likely a large space.

“What a _good_ little _Sher_ lock you’re turning _out_ to be,” the boy teased at him, a squeaking, wheezing laugh following the words. “You’ve _made_ it this far… per _haps_ you feel you need some so _rt_ of—of re _ward_ , for your, uh, efforts, _hmm_?” 

At the question, the camera’s angle changed, the microphone crackling further as Jack handled it. The dimness barely shifted as the view was swung around, but his heart skipped a beat as John was brought into view, tied to a thick, heavy-looking wooden chair, and from the way his head hung forward, clearly unconscious. A growl stole through the Bat’s throat before he even realized he’d exhaled.

“See?” the lilting voice intoned from behind the camera, then. “Un _har_ med. Safe, and uh, well, _safe_. It’s not my f _ault_ he wasn’t ‘ _sound’_ when I _got_ him.” Another laugh at his own bad joke, and Jack was swinging the camera again. “ _Las_ t stop for the _fly_ ing _frea_ k. All ashore who’s _going_ ashore?” Metal siding could be seen as Jack moved in the space, with the camera, seeming to approach a wall. “Get him in _time_ , not—not _fashion_ ably _late_ , and your _boy_ won’t be _har_ med… much. You can _trus_ t me,” he smirked, then, lips drawing the motion unnaturally wide as he pulled the camera lens close to his mouth, “I’m a man of my _word_.”

Once more, the image swung violently, before abruptly stopping, aimed suddenly towards a ceiling, with rows of fluorescent lights dangling—no, not dangling, _fixed_ into a metal girder system. Expecting the video to cut out again, the Bat was ready to set the camera back down, but it didn’t end there. Shuffling sounds could be heard, Jack’s uneven breathing, and another creaking noise. It wasn’t the camcorder this time, however, as it didn’t seem to be touched, and the sound wasn’t as close to the mic.

It was also much deeper, by comparison. 

Tuning out Jack’s mutterings, he listened close, letting his mind transport him, imagining it was his own surroundings, trying to place them with what clues he had. The recording ended suddenly, without the boy or John reappearing, leaving it ambiguous as to whether or not the extra time had been intentional. Either way, it had given him an extra glance into the background, and, with it, he knew where he had to go next.

Heading back to the edge of the roof, a beeping paused his steps. With the camera tucked away once more, he tapped a button on his gauntlet, reviving the readout that now displayed video footage live from the drone he had sent off. John’s bike had been successfully found. However, it was on its side, stripped clean of its pouches, and lay alone against the bricks of the alley in which it had been left. It had been a long shot, hoping to find John with the vehicle, but his absence there confirmed that there was little evidence of a bluff to call. 

Wherever Jack was, John was likely still there, as well.


	16. Fifteen

_______________________ **FIFTEEN** _____________________

_Memories swirled like fever dreams through John’s head. There was a droning in the background, an earthy hum that underlay the colors and sounds dancing in his mind. It was close, yet far too distant for him to identify or process._

_They were arguing again. But, weren’t they so often?_

_Alfred had long since given up on intervening when they got going; if his objections and redirections didn’t work in the first few exchanges, he gave up, letting them get it out of their systems instead. John couldn’t even recall what had_ started _the fight, but it had very quickly swerved into John’s nightlife._

 _“What I’m saying is, there needs to be_ balance _, John… it’s one of the most important things I could ever teach you.”_

_John scoffed, a louder, sharper sound than he might have produced when not heated. “Right, balance… like falling asleep through board meetings, and coming home at night with more injuries than two hands can handle fixing up. I got it, Bruce, balance means ‘life’s a mess’. Consider me taught.”_

_Anger flashed in Bruce’s eyes, and John could see his rebuttal had struck a nerve, but instead of striking back, the older man took a deep breath, eyes closed, and the way his body had swelled with anger seemed to ebb. “I get it,” he started, not meeting John’s eyes at first, “I’m not always setting the best example.”_

_“Mhmm, ‘not always’…”_

_Bruce managed to chuckle at him. “Okay, okay, how about ‘RARELY’? Does that satisfy you?”_

_Crossing his arms, then rubbing at his chin in faux thought, John hummed. “I don’t know, I can be pretty hard to satisfy.” Looking back at Bruce, he caught the shift in his eyes that turned nearly to a sparkle._

_“Hard?”_

_It was John’s turn to laugh. “Difficult.”_

_“I see.” Bruce smiled, closing their distance and pressing his forehead to John’s. “I worry. You worry me.”_

_Fighting back an eyeroll, John covered Bruce’s worried lips with his own, lingering long enough to make sure Bruce softened into the contact. “I know. I worry about you, too, you know.”_

_“That’s valid.”_

_“Damn fucking right, it is!” John quickly lobbed back._

_Another kiss was initiated from Bruce, and lasted twice as long. “Do one thing for me, okay?” Bruce brought the subject towards a close. John made a questioning hum, and he continued. “Be careful. Mind your surroundings and the people in them. Use your common sense, think about more than your dick so you stay safe.”_

_“Bruce… that’s like… five thi—ow!” In the middle of his complaint, Bruce had leaned forward and caught up John’s bottom lip between his teeth. “Okay, okay!” he managed, unable to properly form his words. “I’ll be careful.”_

_Releasing him, Bruce left an apologetic kiss over John’s lip. “Thank you.”_

_\---_

_Scenes bled together, overlaid, a mishmash of conversations and people. Jack’s face floated in front of his mind’s eye, but he wasn’t there, not present, not in the past. He was in John’s thoughts, even as Bruce was in his presence. In a rush of dampened sensation, he found himself in the cave, at least, he watched himself in the cave, with Bruce and Alfred._

_Having put his cycle away, he was taking care of his armor and suit as Bruce’s voice washed towards his ears. “I know you’re still looking for him.”_

_“So,” John drew out, “you’re following me now?”_

_“I don’t have to, to know that.”_

_Splashing water over his face and head from a mounted sink near the gear racks, John wiped harshly over his face with a towel. “Why does it matter?”_

_Bruce’s body filled what little air space stood between John and the rest of the cave. “Because he’s not good for you.”_

_It had been over a year since their initial fight over the nature of their relationship, and while most days John had grown not to be sore over it, there were times that all of those feelings came rushing back to him. This was one._

_“Well, if I’m not good enough for Gotham’s Favorite Son, then maybe I’m perfect for a club rat.” It was spat out, and it wasn’t fair to Bruce_ or _to Jack, but anger was anger. He challenged Bruce’s imposing lean._

_“That’s not what I meant by that, and you know it.” John didn’t back down, but Bruce did. At the time, John hadn’t recognized it, but in his mind’s eye, reviewing the scene, he could see a weight behind Bruce’s eyes, he could acknowledge the tiredness and loneliness that lingered there._

_He had just shrugged, leading Bruce to repeat his ever-present ‘be careful’, and the discussion had been tabled for the night._

_Having been a passive presence until then, Alfred approached John when Bruce left, though noticeably left more space between them than the former had._

_“This is truly important to you, isn’t it lad.”_

_Tossing his boots towards the storage shelf, missing, and not caring to fix it, John let out a sharp breath. “It is. He is. And he’s just GONE.” It was annoying, certainly, for someone like Jack to have come into his life and so suddenly leave, but more than that, John found himself worrying, at times, that he hadn’t left so easily or entirely by choice._

_“Then follow your heart, my boy,” a wrinkled hand settled on John’s shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze, “so long as you lead with your head.”_

_\---_

In the midst of darkness, his eyes not yet as conscious as his mind, all John could sense was far off sounds. The dreams were done, that much he could definitely tell. He couldn’t feel his body yet, but something still wasn’t quite right. What was it? 

Taking all of the focus he could muster, John listened. None of the sounds made sense at first, but he kept listening, and a pattern began to emerge. First, a creaking, then a clanging. They were rhythmic, though not in perfect repetition. There was a roll to them, their presence washing over his ears as if in waves. Echoes rang through his head, a painful lull against what he was fairly certain was a nasty concussion.

He lost track of the sounds as he woke further, his eyes finally opening, even if there wasn’t much to see. That only lasted a moment. After that, his untrustworthy vision was filled by a blurry face. Jack’s.

“Good _morn_ ing, _Sun_ shine.”

Paint was back on Jack’s skin, thicker than John had ever seen him wear it, and its arrangement of colors was more haphazard. Each portion bled into the next, which wasn’t helping John to sharpen his perspective. Blinking did very little to help clear the clouds from his eyes, either.

“Jack?” John’s tongue felt thick, heavy, and his voice wouldn’t listen to his orders. “Where…” Swallowing, he worked to finish the question, but it only continued inside his mind.

A hand patted his cheek lightly, he could tell from the impact, and the blurry motion of an arm, but the sensation was more like when he’d come back from a trip to the dentist and was unable to feel his face for hours. John tried to intercept it, to catch Jack’s hand, or even to touch his own skin to make sure it was still there, after all, but his arm wouldn’t listen. Brows pinching slowly to the center, he made a focused effort to curl his fingers, to tense his upper arm, and though he could tell that the muscles shifted, something else was wrong. With a waking sensation beginning to spread under his skin, down from his head and up from his toes, John felt realization dawn on his mind in a similar fashion.

He was tied up.

_Why was he tied up?_

A few more blinks helped Jack’s face to come into focus, even as it tilted back and forth, his eyes trained on John’s more sharply than ever. Jack could easily see he was having trouble, but wasn’t making any moves to help him. A chill ran down John’s spine, of an entirely different nature to any he’d experienced as excitement with Jack in the past. Realization struck John that this encounter was not at all in the playful nature that had defined their times together.

"What's your play, here?" John asked, keeping his head aimed at Jack but flicking his eyes to the side, trying to let his focus adjust to the dark space around them. His tone was flat, cold. "Lure me in to kill me?" 

Jack’s voice, however, seemed unchanged from how he’d ever heard it. "Why would I _wa_ nt to _kill_ you?" Jack returned, laughter on his breath, his head tilted to the side and rocking forward. "If I _kill_ you, then... the _n_ I'd be _bored_. No, no, _no_ ," he shook his head, straggly strands of hair swinging side to side with its motion until he raised a hand to tuck them behind each ear in turn. His tongue flicked out along his lips, less, it seemed, to wet them as much as if some hair had stuck there that he needed to release, though John could see none. "I was _hon_ est, sun _shi_ ne... I _want_ you. Not _hurt_ , not—not _killed_ , but a _live_ and possibly even _kick_ ing." The last was punctuated by a bounce in his frame, lifting his body up onto the balls of his feet in emphasis.

"Normal people don't lead people they like to abandoned, empty warehouses where it's dark and there aren't any witnesses, Jack." There was a hard edge John could hear in his own voice, the tension in his body translating through his words. Jack was stronger than he looked, that much he knew, but John also realized he had no idea if the other boy could really fight, or if he'd hidden any weapons on his person.

With scarred lips pursed tightly, the shift in their muscles pushing out the gathered skin to their sides in a near pout, Jack looked at John from beneath painted brows. "Normal? _Nor_ mal?" he repeated, his tone less credulous with each syllable. "I thi _nk_ ," he began again, flicking his tongue out over his lips again and sweeping his eyes to either side, his voice lower as if to share a secret, "I _think_ there are no _nor_ mal people in the—in the _room_." Another moment passed, and Jack straightened, chin tilted downward, no longer conspiratorial in his posture. “It’s _not_ a _ware_ house,” he corrected. 

It didn’t make sense, at first. The space was familiar enough in that it was spacious, open, square-ish, cold, and with the same standard corrugated metal walls. There had seemed little sense in analyzing the space beyond that, taking the time and distraction to separate it from others. In the quiet of confusion that followed, however, John allowed his senses a few more moments to adjust, and it was then that it clearly reached his ears: a deep, thrumming creaking, almost like a slowed vibration on a cord. Realization dawning, his eyes snapped back up to Jack’s, finding the other’s alight with pleasure at his reaction.

“…We’re on a ship.”

“Bing- _go_ ,” sing-songed at him from a wide, satisfied grin. “And wh _at_ do we _got_ for him, _Johnny_?” The question was raised loudly enough to echo away from them both, into the open space, as Jack turned away. Pacing a few steps, and after sending a glance back to John’s chair, he reached up, pulling down a thick wire chain ending in a switch remote panel. “Shall we have a _look_ at your—your _pri_ ze, sun­ _shi_ ne?” Even beyond the whole scene, the tone in Jack’s voice made John leery, turning his stomach.

“And if I said no?” he stalled, finally able to shift his wrists and test the strength of the ropes and their knots. So far, it did no good. Though whether that was more due to the strength of the ropes or the weakness of his body remained to be seen. 

“Ah- _ah_ ,” Jack clicked his tongue in reproach, shaking a finger in John’s direction, one hand still holding the switch panel. “It would _n’t_ do to _wander off_ in the middle of the _game_.” 

Struggling again, he started to argue against the concept of kidnapping and hostage-holding being a _game_ , but Jack tugged on his ropes, then cinched a bandana around his mouth so he stopped talking back.

“This,” Jack started again, his tone sharper, “th _is_ is for your own _good_ …”

John glared up at him, explaining aloud, though muffled and likely unintelligible, how fucked up the whole situation was right then.

“ _LISTEN_ ,” growled Jack’s order, his voice unnaturally resonant even in the space’s acoustics.

It wasn’t only his voice that changed. In the moment of the word’s expulsion, Jack’s presence appeared to sharpen, the visual of his body appearing to swell larger, more suddenly imposing as if he were some beast into which the boy could shift at will. As the reverberations of his voice began to fade, so did the impression, but the hairs at the back of John’s neck remained raised. 

Once he seemed sure that John had finished fidgeting, he held up three fingers, using them to visually count down as he spoke, “And _here_ … _we_ … _go_.” On the last word, he flicked the switch, and a previously completely darkened corner of the space was illuminated by a punch of fluorescent overhead lighting. 

Squinting against the sudden change, John turned his head to face it straight on. At first, he couldn’t be sure _what_ he was seeing. There was no movement, not right away, but with the first shiftings in the light, shadows adjusting their shapes, he began to make out the initially aimless motion. His eyes widened, his throat stuck tight, and he hoped against logic that Bruce’s Bat wouldn’t come for him. 


	17. Sixteen

_______________________ **SIXTEEN** _____________________

All was nearly silent and still when the Bat arrived at the shipping district.

Dock workers had deserted for the night, and the nightshift either had nothing to do or, more likely, had been sent off as well. The only sounds meeting his ears, aside from the ever-present din of the city behind him, was the steady-rhythmed lapping of river waves against ships and the bulkhead, and the creak and groan of docked freighters. Two, to be exact, with a gangplank connecting them, bow to stern. An attempt to search for heat signatures proved fruitless through the thick hull, for either ship. 

Finding no luck from the land-side, he took a running leap, catching a line out from the moorings in lieu of any walkway ramps actually being extended to the wood. Cape barely grazing the surface of the water, he stole swiftly across the short distance, silent even as his boots took to the metal deck. Both ships were dark, save for the control room now straight ahead of where he stood. Soft, yellow-hued light faintly glowed from its windows, as if from a secondary source further in. 

Most of the only sound in the air was taken up by the creaking of the ship’s hull, the wind whistling lowly around his cowl, and the slap of water against the dock’s bulkhead. Even so, there was something else, something behind, or perhaps beneath all the rest, that seemed to thrum in his ears. He swept across the ship’s deck, its control room confirmed to be empty, until he found an access stairwell running down below it. Before surrendering his awareness to the belly of steel, however, he planted a micro-camera above the doorframe, its feed set to light up his gauntlet’s screen, upon sensing motion. 

The only light actually activated was the one at the top of the stairway, and the rest remained quiet and dark as he descended into the ship, too quiet for his nerves to calm. While Jack had given no evidence that he was working with a team of people—in fact, if he was truly connected to the incidents the Bat had been following around the city, he didn’t tend to keep any cohorts around—he still kept his attentions alert, watching the shadows and turns of his journey for any sudden appearances. Down to the second level, a segmented corridor presented itself.

There were certainly plenty of places to lie in wait for an ambush, yet the silence still reigned. 

With one passage proving to be a dead-end of crew dormitories, the Bat could feel urgency quickening in his blood, guiding his steps faster back in the other direction, discovering yet another set of steps downward. Pausing near the top, his ears trained for softer sounds were lit up by the crackling of a PA system coming to life. 

“At _ten_ tion,” came an announcer-style tone, though he knew the voice instantly. “This is your—your _cap_ tain _spea_ king.” A pause of static interrupted the missive, as well as a screech of feedback before it returned. “All hands… I re _peat_ , all _hands_ to the _hold_.” Clicking several times, the sound finally cut off, its user clearly having had trouble cleanly shutting it off.

Down it was, then.

The same buzzing hum that had puzzled him topside grew louder, more present, nearly palpable, as he drew near the ship’s main cargo hold. Light bled onto the bottom of the stair case, after it turned a half flight at the end. He could hear voices echoing, little evidence that the hold was full of containers or pallets. 

“ _He’s smarter than you,”_ John’s voice filtered in a tinny echo. The Bat had to stuff down the rush of relief that filled his body at knowing he was present, conscious; alive.

A line of crates made a manner of cattle chute for the Bat to wind through into the more open area. Lilting chuckles accompanied his entrance into the hold, a pied-piper’s song to string him out of the shadows.

“May _be_ … _may_ be not.” Jack turned from having been facing away from the Bat, a thick wooden chair on the other side of him, and in it, John. Ropes ringed his torso, his arms flattened against his side and then hooked behind his back. Each ankle was secured separately to the legs of the chair, where they were supported by a horizontal bar.

“Let him go,” growled deep from the Bat’s throat, underrunning in echoes around the chamber between and around them. He stood his ground in enough distance, keeping his eyes close on the pair across the floor, but taking careful stock of the edges of the space. The walls were bare, corrugated metal, no large containers where a full ship would have tracks and rigging, but there were the stacks of crates by where he’d entered, and there were others ringing the sides; a frame, reminiscent of a cage match.

Clapping his hands as if in excitement, Jack tilted his head, mocking a thoughtful pose for several moments. “MM _mmm_ … No.” When the Bat took a step forward, Jack held out his hand to stop him. “Ah- _ah_ ,” he admonished. “We, _we_ are gonna do this _right_.”

“Don’t listen to him,” John called across, rushing his words, “it’s a tra—” his words were stopped fast by Jack’s hand clapping back across his mouth, holding it tightly, fingers gripped into his cheeks. John bit down the second the meaty part of his hand was in reach. 

“Ah-ah- _OW_!” Laughing sharply, Jack shook his hand, tapping John’s nose firmly enough to have his head snapping back. “ _Sun_ shine, that’s for _la_ ter… not _YET_. Be _sides_ , that pa _rt_ is _ob_ vious.” Dramatically clearing his throat, Jack spread his hands wide, just barely missing smacking the back of his right hand across John’s face. “ _This_ is how it’s _go_ ing _down_ …”


	18. Seventeen

_______________________ **SEVENTEEN** _____________________

“ _We_ ,” Jack paused, looking both of them in the eyes before pulling a small stereo-style remote from one of his smaller pockets, “are _go_ ing to play some, some more _ga_ mes to _geth_ er.” 

John met the Bat’s eyes from across the space, catching only the glint in them from the overhead lighting. The floor was dim again, dingy, leaving Bruce no clues as to what was really going on, John knew. He needed to warn him. “Don’t, it’s—” The bandana found his mouth again, faster than he could have tracked Jack moving, cinched tight.

“Let’s not _spoil it_!” The Bat took another set of steps forward, closing the gap by a little more, and Jack wildly waved his hands as he crossed in front of John, temporarily blocking him from view. “Our _ga_ me be _gins_ with—with _you_ ,” he held an arm stiffly and sharply out towards the Bat, “and, and _end_ s with _you_ , sun _sh_ ine…” After holding the other arm out to John, and receiving only blank stares from each of them, expecting more, his face pinched and he sputtered. 

“Y-You know _wha_ t, this is _bor_ ing… Let’s skip _right_ to the _goo_ d part!”

Clicking the small remote, a second and third line of fluorescent lights clanked to life on either side of the row that had already been lit. “I never _did_ have _any_ pat _ience_ with… with _bor_ ing _mov_ ies.” Tossing it aside, apparently having no other use for it as it broke and clattered against a crate stack, Jack reached behind John, bending down and returning with a much _larger_ object. What he held, then, while also seeming to be a sort of remote control, looked much more akin to the type one would need for a model plane, with a long antenna.

“There’s so ma _ny_ _bor_ ing ways to kill a _bat_ ,” Jack spoke in a broken cadence accompanied by his manipulations on the large control pad, “bu _t_ , why not have a _lit_ tle _fun_ with your _chores_!”

The Bat began advancing toward them again, but stopped when a sea of red indicator lights once again showed itself. John had seen it, when he’d woken, and hadn’t been able to warn Bruce. He was finding out on his own, though, as he turned to catch the movement behind the cornered-off section of grates.

John called out for him, against the bandana, but his partner had more to worry about than his shouts. 

Emerging from the dark, slowly, without fully formed intent, was a mob of young men and women—kids, really—each of them wearing a metal collar with a series of LED lights, all of them showing red. John already knew, and had known from his first glance, that these kids were the same ones that had been going missing from Gotham’s streets for months. 

“ _So_ you’ve got your… your _code_ , and you don’t _kill_ peo _ple_ …” The crowd poured slowly out of the corner, Jack shifting a few of the myriad buttons on his panel while they spread in a crescent shape past the Bat, as Jack addressed them both. Even with the collars, their motions seemed nearly aimless at first, not concerted together, but slowly they became a solid mass. “But what about the—the _un_ savable ones?” he made a flourish in the air with one hand, as if conjuring the image he intended. “The _ones_ that, that are _gone_ , no matter how you _try_ , or, or turn them _in_ to the _police_. What about… what about _t h o s e_?” The last word was more of an exhale of breath than speech, Jack’s eyes hardening, shining nuggets of coal set in pale stone. “Will you kill _those_? How about _this_ for a _plan_ …”

Dozens and dozens of collar lights blinked, and the horde advanced on Batman, with a small contingent also aiming toward John, which had a hesitating Jack rushing over for a moment, smacking the hands of those that misaligned. Hot-stepping backward again, he pushed a series of buttons on the controller panel, readjusting the lights. Emanating from those redirected were whines of complaint—not quite pain, nearly petulant, like a dog reaching the end of its leash just inches away from a treat. Even so, they backed away with an obedient stumble in their steps, and Jack nearly giggled with a sickening glee splitting his features. 

As John struggled in his ties, the Bat had begun pushing teens back and away from him, even as they grouped around him haphazardly. It wasn’t teamwork, even John’s frantic glances could discern that, but they all had the same movements, simultaneous even when they were blocking or attacking the Bat’s defenses and advances. Unlike in altercations with criminals, or dangerous foes, the Bat was clearly holding back his force in an effort not to overly hurt the teens.

Jack, by contrast, was uncoordinated in his own body as he directed them. “I’ve always… _loved_ … video _ga_ mes,” he spoke in a flat, broken rhythm as he turned the controller this way and that. It didn’t really appear that he seemed to know exactly what he was doing, so much as he was pressing all of the buttons to see what each and their combinations might do next. 

“OO _oo_ ooOo, it’s just so _com_ plicated… so _hard_ to get it… just… _righ_ t.” Each word was punctuated by a decisive push of a button, but still without a logical order.

The Bat was strong, but horribly outnumbered. 

John couldn’t stand, and he thrashed his head, working his jaw until the bandana was loose from his mouth and he could shout again.

“Bruce!”

Struggling to get even the least bit of his arms out free of the ties, John’s heart leapt into his throat. The Bat was already catching connecting punches.

The fluidity in the caped form’s motions directly contrasted the hurried frenzy of action that surrounded it. As a group, there was a wave to their attack, and as much as John tried to focus on Bruce, the Bat, individual motions became a continual blur. Blinking and squinting made it no better as his brain struggled to recover.

A glance to the side told him that Jack was paying far less attention to him at the moment than he was the fight across the room, but that didn’t mean John was being ignored, nor that he was totally unsupervised. Every so often, Jack spared him a “ _shh_!” hissed out between his grinning teeth. 

“You’re not going to get to finish this,” John grated out, wincing from nearly tearing his shoulder out of its socket to work the ropes. Meanwhile, the heavy crowd had surrounded the Bat, the ears of his cowl standing out above most of their heads as they pushed against one another to press closer.

Sending John a look that he could only distractedly describe as smug, Jack turned once back to his switches, humming and muttering to himself as he fiddled with the buttons and dials. After what must have been trial and error, from his mutterings, he finally seemed pleased, checking the progress of his changes against the tightening throng around the Bat’s swinging fists and kicks before setting aside the board.

“Sun _shine_ ,” his tone was indulgent, and he reached to begin loosening John’s ties, “we’re al _read_ y _fin_ ishing it.”


	19. Eighteen

_______________________ **EIGHTEEN** _____________________

John had been trying to warn him. John apparently knew what was coming for the Bat when the lights came up, had had a preview. As the horde of teens with collars ringing their necks came into view from the corner of the cargo hold, the Bat found himself simply grateful that John had appeared mostly unharmed. 

So much of their struggles and efforts in the past months came sharply into focus along with the mass of bodies that began to advance, as if the pins and notes on his mental corkboard were finally connected in a web of understanding. Jack had squirreled away the missing kids. Jack had somehow gotten hold of Algren’s technology. Combining the two had led to an army of misfit soldiers, and they were headed straight for the Bat.

Questions poked at his convictions, his purpose, but the Bat wasn’t even considering killing these kids. All too clearly, they’d been pitted against him unwillingly, and there was no way they should die for someone else’s misdeeds. Jack, ‘The Joker’, didn’t understand that.

Shuffling and plaintive noises surrounded him as they advanced, but the Bat could still hear Jack’s voice, and John’s arguments against it. 

“I’m pro _tect_ ing you, _Sun_ shine,” filtered over the heads of those beginning to circle him. “I’m _jus_ t hav _ing_ some good _clean_ fun with it. Well,” a sickening snicker vaulted over the space, “not _clean_ …”

While the crowd moved largely together, there were some that reached him before the others. The Bat pushed them back, their forward progress slow and staggered enough that he was able to maintain a certain bubble of distance around himself even as their line circled behind him. He spun, steadily, shoving at those that penetrated his space, but soon there was not enough room behind those he pushed for them to fall back very far. 

Some of the faces around him were familiar, and at least a few of them he knew to be runners and gophers for Gotham’s crime families, kids he’d researched, and he found himself feeling slightly less guilty about striking at _those_ youth as opposed to the ones from the streets that were more like John than mobsters. At first, he worked to keep an eye on Jack and John, trying to move his fight closer, edge across the floor, but while he was no doubt stronger than each and every youth around him, together, they posed quite an imposing force. They weren’t skilled, but their collars provided something else for them—directions, coordination, and control. 

That was it, too. The collars. Not a doubt in the Bat’s mind, what little of it could occupy general thoughts at the moment, aimed at them being anything less than Algren’s proposed tech. What might have been marketed to Defense contracts as ‘soldier directives’ was now compelling homeless and hardened teenagers to take on Gotham’s vigilante. It wasn’t just punches, not just impacts against him as they were ordered to strike. There was a wildness to their eyes, a heaviness to their breathing, and they flung themselves at him the way a spooked horse rears and kicks.

Gleeful sounds echoed in staccato beats from Jack. “It’s like… like _drones_ ,” he heard him telling John, “but-but _peo_ ple, not _ro_ bots.” A pause, where he likely looked thoughtful, maybe, but the Bat couldn’t possibly spare a glance to find out. “Or… or _bees_.” 

All attention shifted shortly after, as pockets of the throng began diving at him, grabbing onto his arms even as he swung them. The kids were light, but they piled together quickly, making it difficult to stay on his feet.

Forearm dragged in front of his face by three pairs of arms and hands, the Bat was momentarily distracted by the readout on his gauntlet lighting up the display. 

An alert filled the small green-backed screen, the tracker on John’s bike having been activated.

_Great_ , one part of his mind not occupied with fending off glancing blows and grasping fingers piped up, _John’s bike is being stolen._ What would have warranted a chase, or at least a call to Alfred to keep tabs on it, now was the very least of his concerns. 

He almost went down, for a moment or two, after working to glance over and check on John and not finding him in the chair. But the two were still present, even as a punch to the cowl sent him staggering off-kilter and losing sight of them once more. Three teens scattered to the metal floor beneath them as the Bat struck blindly to clear his space, several more tripping and clattering over them in the process. He could hear the clank of metal-on-metal as their collars clattered, and the sound sickened him. 

“Wake _up_!” he shouted, his face millimeters from that or a pair of kids. He shook them, he rattled their collars, tugging them to no avail. Nothing changed the wide-eyed, sparkless stare that had sunken into their faces. Those he knocked down struggled like overturned beetles, their limbs scrambling for purchase, unaided, almost as if they weren’t truly able to consciously grasp that they were on the ground and not standing, no longer facing their assigned opponent.

This was an army, but they were not soldiers.

This wasn’t direction or orders, it was madness. Like zombies, they crawled over one another, each of them with a singular focus on his person. They returned when pushed away. They found their way to their feet eventually. Even those he knew he had knocked out cold were twitching on the floor, their bodies apparently still receiving messages from whatever part of the collar was connecting to their nervous system, their muscles spasming.

It was only a moment or two that he found himself on the floor, his balance evading him. Again, through the mess of shins and knees he looked for John, but something else was clearly going on across the room, and the Bat was beginning to think his fight, laborious though it was becoming, was in part merely a distraction. His efforts redoubled, and he growled aloud as he fought his way back to his feet.


	20. Nineteen

_______________________ **NINETEEN** _____________________

With the Bat busy across the room, and John unable to get to or help him without succumbing himself, he was forced to play out Jack’s game until he had another opening. Even untied, even with the control board temporarily out of Jack’s hands, he was stuck. 

Jack led him to the side, almost out of line of sight from the fray. Holding his arms out wide to either side, Jack gave a short bow in John’s direction, as if a performance had ended, or perhaps just begun. Turning to execute a swift grab and yank, Jack tore down a long tarp that had been strung along a gap between two stacks of crates. 

Brows pinched in confusion, John squinted and blinked at the space that was revealed, uncertain he was seeing what his still partially uncooperative eyes told him he was.

Two men were on the floor, restrained in bent positions that couldn’t be comfortable. There was tape over their mouths, and though they were conscious, there seemed little enough of a struggle in their postures that John had to assume they’d been drugged. What wasn’t left to assumptions, however, and what sent his blood rushing even more harshly past his ears, momentarily drowning out the commotion from the fight, was _who_ the two men were.

Chad Wannell. Ivan Grutetsky.

Right in front of John, _at his feet_ , were the men he and Bruce had tied to John’s father’s murder.

Numb as his nerves suddenly became, he almost didn’t feel the handle of the knife being pressed against his palm, couldn’t force himself to flinch away when Jack leaned in close to his ear, his breath nearly a purr as he spoke for him and only him.

“They’re _yours_ , Sun _shine_ … a, a _gif_ t… from _me_ to _you_.” Jacks hands reached forward, fingers splayed, a show of presenting the pair to John. 

Moving close to his side, half behind John, Jack slipped an arm around his waist. “I’ve been _plan_ ning this,” he continued, his voice still just for John’s ear, filtering in past the rush of blood rising in John’s head. “Since we, since we _met_.” Fingertips lightly traced down John’s arm, towards his wrist, his hand, closing John’s fingers around the knife handle. “I _learned_. You were _lost_ , in-in _need_ , and right a _way_ I knew _you_ were _mean_ t to be _mine_.” 

John shuddered at Jack’s nose pressing against his neck, none of the excitement at the danger of him racing to his dick. A roil in his stomach fought towards his throat at the thought of touching him, now, at being touched. At how foolish he’d been.

“I _watch_ ed you.” Jack’s voice continued, and John listened, though his eyes were trained on the pair on the floor, studying their bodies, the back of his mind tracing them for possible weaknesses. “First in the _streets_ , but then,” a lewd chuckle that puffed against John’s skin, “in the _sheets_ , with sugar- _daddy_ , in… in _sug_ ar daddy’s big _man_ sion on the, on the _hills_. I was rea _dy_ , _wait_ ing for the be _st_ time to come _back_ for you.”

The trance that had taken over John was momentarily punctured by the last admission from Jack. Eyes still forward, he fought for stability in his voice as he demanded, “You watched us _fuck_? _How_?”

Shrugging, a motion which squeezed John closer as a byproduct, Jack sputtered for a moment, seeming caught off guard by the question. “Th-… ‘s not…” His hands waved as he let go of John. “Not conse _quent_ ial, why fo _cus_ on _that_ ,” he admonished, but then rambled off a series of mutters that John couldn’t fully grasp. He did, however, catch ‘drain spouts’, ‘vines’, and more clearly, “…whatever those, those _waff_ le-shaped things are, that, that the _vines_ grow on, up the _side_ of the…” fingers flourished, traveling up in the air, “with all of the lit _tle_ square _holes_ …” Arms alternating diagonals, Jack mimed a trellis, not really succeeding despite John already having figured out what he meant.

“Wait,” John swallowed intentionally, pushing other, unimportant questions away, and trying to reset his breathing even as its quickened pace left his mouth dry. “Wait, how… how long have you had them?” His fingers tightening around the knife handle, John turned his face just enough to be able to see them both.

Jack’s head drew back, as if John had just attacked him. “Since I _need_ ed them,” he returned, cryptic, un-explanatory, and as if it were only obvious.

“JACK.” John’s voice was a growl that rivaled the Bat, far more force and grit to it than the Nightwing ever bothered to farce. “How. Long.” Heat rose into John’s chest, radiating upwards, across his sternum, up the sides of his neck. He was breathing it as he awaited his answer.

For his part, Jack only seemed pleased the angrier John became. Whether it was part of his game, or just a sick enjoyment, John didn’t know, but couldn’t process a care either way. “I _hid_ them,” hands spread and waved in front of John’s face, like a magician’s flourish, “away, _secret_ , safe—e _nough_ —until I needed them. And now I _do_.” 

A squeeze to his hand, fingers pressed in tighter around the molded rubber handle, and John was made more acutely and consciously aware of his possession of the knife. And what knives are for.

“And now _you_ need them.” Jack slid fully behind him, his body flush with John’s, his arms lined up behind each of John’s, pressing them forward for use. “ _Tha_ t,” he jerked his head back towards the room, John only passingly aware of the motion, “that is _for_ the _ci_ ty… the _gang_ s, they’ll… they’ll blame each _other_ , for their, their _mon_ ey... which is _mine_ ,” the last was lower, an aside, “and their _poor_ lost _child_ ren, which are _also_ mine,” another aside, “and they’ll _tea_ r each oth _er_ ap _art_ , and the _BAT_ man will be caught in the _mid_ dle, like he is _now_. At least,” Jack’s voice sank deeper into his throat, “the i _dea_ of him.”

John could feel his hands begin to tremble. “It won’t be that easy…”

Breathy laughter puffed out against John’s neck, Jack’s nose momentarily buried there again, a hissing sound issuing from between his teeth. “Sun _shi_ ne,” he spoke nearly patronizingly, as if to a child, “it’s al _read_ y _go_ ing. But _this_ ,” he ran his lips over John’s neck, his breath hot on John’s skin yet still sending a shiver down his spine, “ _this_ is for _you_.”

While not quite clarity, something akin to awareness was beginning to dawn and coalesce in the bound men’s eyes. Whatever drugs Jack had given them were seeming to wear off.

Guided by Jack, John stepped closer, and their eyes trained upward, narrowing and then widening with recognition. Either Jack had told them, or they remembered him enough to know him, now.

Good.

Fingers flexing their hold on the knife, John fought to control his breathing. Part of him had been wanting this for so many years, this moment, this scenario, this _power_ over the men who had taken the rest of his world from him so early in his life. In his mind, he could see it, the way he could just walk over, lean down, grab them by the hair and slit their throats. The way he could stomp on their chests and perforate their bellies. The way he could cut them in as many ways as he pleased before they once again lost that consciousness they’d only just begun to regain as he watched.

Sensing his deliberation, Jack slipped long fingers around the knife’s handle, along with John’s. “You _are_ n’t a _play_ thing, Sun _shine_. You’re _play_ ing billion _aire’s_ child, vigil _ant_ e’s _play_ boy, a _good_ y-goody, when you have _so_ … much… po _tent_ ial.” Jack’s body snaked against John’s, more contact than he could even acknowledge. On a rooftop, another day, even earlier _that_ day, and it would have had John heated and hard in his pants. Instead, his body remained cold. “Take re _venge_ , Sunshine… get your _just_ ice… you know th _is_ way is b _ett_ er,” fingers played with his, stroking from knuckle to knuckle, “ _and_ you can come wi _th_ me, and take _all_ that I can _gi_ ve you.”

For the first time since alighting on them, John’s gaze shifted away from the killers at his feet. Hand rising forward, he looked down at the knife, tilted it, watched the glint of the fluorescent lights travel from the edge of its hilt diagonally towards its tip. Its edge was sharp, he could tell without touching it. A thought struck him that, if all of their investigations were connected like Jack had claimed, that very knife could have been used around the city to cause harm, to threaten, to kill. And there it was, in his hand.

He wanted justice for his father. He wanted _vengeance_. 

What was it worth, all of this time searching, if he would do nothing about it, when the moment finally arrived?

That in mind, his vision near tunneling as sound faded to a ring in his ears, John took his opportunity. Striking before his opponent could shift their body to block or avoid his blow, John twisted and stuck his knife hilt-deep into flesh. 

Jack’s flesh.

Handle sticking out from just below his rib line, Jack first grasped the wounded spot, and then held out his hands with blood painting their surfaces, looking puzzled by it. Coughing, wincing, his face which once boasted an unthwartable smile frowned deeply. “That’s _not_ what the _knife_ was _for_ , Sunshine…”

“I know,” was all John could muster. 

Foot stamping quickly on the floor, Jack’s eyes turned angry as a blade emerged from the toe of his boot. “You’ve been _ve_ ry disre _spect_ ful.” 

Crying out, he rushed John, but _not_ having a stab wound to his middle gave John the immediate advantage. A quick sidestep had him just enough out of Jack’s way to carefully sweep Jack’s legs just below the knee, far enough up from the boot’s blade to keep it from slicing his own shins.

Nearly sprawling out on the metal decking, Jack still took too much time to right his balance, allowing John to make up some distance. 

He ran straight for the control panel.

It was within reach when a white-hot slash seared through one ankle, and then almost immediately the other. Knees hit metal directly after, without his permission, and John found he couldn’t make his feet work at all. Gritting his teeth against the burning pain, John forced himself to fall within reach of the control, grabbing it up as Jack staggered above him.

“Be a _good_ kitten, no _w_ ,” rasped out towards him.

“Give _dad_ dy his _toy_.”

Jack’s last word came out more growl than anything but with a pained edge, and when he leaned to reach for the corner of the panel, John took advantage of his vulnerability, of his misjudgment of John’s remaining strength, and firmed up his hold of it.

“You want it?” he gritted, not having looked up, waiting for the exact moment. He knew he’d likely get only one shot by then. “Here _, TAKE IT!_ ” 

With a surge he didn’t think he could execute, John flipped his body over, swinging his arms and, consequently, the control panel, as hard as he could, finding his aim right-on as the motion sent the hard metal corner of the panel directly into the hole he’d made in Jack’s stomach. 

Sending out a startled shriek, Jack crumpled, enough that control of his boot was taken out of play. John dragged himself agonizingly up onto his knees again, fighting Jack’s frantic kicking to pry the boot off of his foot. After gifting Jack with a solid punch to the jaw to keep him down, John took a deep breath and, with as much force as he could, slammed the boot’s knife down on the control panel, aiming for the readouts, the switches, any and all vulnerable spots. 

“No!” echoed from behind John’s shoulders. 

Despite not having much leverage as he could only scramble painfully onto his knees, John’s blows registered on the thin metal shell of the panel, denting, piercing, sparks flying as its interior was penetrated. 

Labored breathing gurgled behind him. “You’re _ruin_ ing it! _Wasting_! You’re _suppo_ sed to choo _se_ _ME_. _You’re_ su _ppos_ ed to come with _ME…_ ” Coughing stole whatever words followed, but even if he’d paid attention, John couldn’t make sense of them. 

John felt crazed as he kept slamming the boot down, whatever mechanism that had deployed the knife beginning to warp, tearing the sole from the rest of the shoe, but still he pounded it, ignoring the complaints of his arms and shoulders.

It wasn’t until he heard his name, heard it repeated, louder, and recognized Bruce’s voice, that he finally stilled, panting heavily to catch back the breath he feared he’d never regain. Looking up, he saw the Bat, battered and alive, standing in the middle of the mob—no, not a mob, John realized, but merely a large crowd of kids.

Their collars were dark, now. He’d done it, he’d shut off their control. 

Some lay moaning on the floor, injured enough to be down for the count, others quite clearly unconscious. Some immediately began running for a way out while some sat heavily and cried. The rest stood, staring blankly, too stunned or in too much shock to begin to process what had happened. 

“Let go, John.”

Knuckles having gone totally white, it took concerted effort for John to convince his fingers to relax, letting the boot drop and clatter to the floor beside the battered panel. “It’s over,” he croaked, the shaking in his limbs threatening to topple him over, though his knees were locked so tightly he feared he’d be stuck kneeling for the rest of his life. “We got h—” Unable to finish, John had turned his head away from Bruce, towards where Jack’s body _should_ have been lying gathering blood.

“Fuck!”

There was no sign of Jack. 

Feeling wetness drag the cuffs of his pants, sharp pain began to take up full residence through his legs. John felt sick, and then dizzy, and with Bruce’s mouth moving and none of his words reaching John’s ears, all at once the metal floor rushed up to smash into his face.


	21. Twenty

_______________________ **TWENTY** _____________________

John would have described the scene inside the cargo hold as ‘a shit show’. While Bruce was not generally of the same mind when it came to vernacular, in this case he wouldn’t have disagreed. 

Out of breath, sporting at least two cracked ribs and several bite marks, Bruce’s Bat surveyed the remaining youths who hadn’t run up the exit stairways, noting that his motion-sensor alarm had been tripped, meaning at least some of them had made their way topside. 

Rushing to John’s side, he kicked the decimated control box away from the boy’s hands. Following the aim of his gaze, he realized along with the curse from his ward that Jack was nowhere to be seen. Last he’d spotted him, Jack and John had been arguing, and there was a fair amount of blood littering the metal floor where he _had_ been. It scraped off to one side, a sweeping motion likely caused by Jack struggling to stand again, but further deductions would have to wait.

Having run out of energy and consciousness for the moment, John’s body smacked its way to the floor with an echoing impact, right at the Bat’s feet. Another time, in different context, it might have been comical.

Not having known what they were walking into, what he’d be able to do with Jack, with John, the Bat hadn’t told the GCPD where he’d been headed, nor had he called them in when he’d arrived. As a consequence, he knew he had some time before they would be interrupted by police presence. John was injured, bleeding, but not so badly that he couldn’t wait. Assured that he was breathing, that his pulse was strong, the Bat turned to tend to the most pressing concerns. 

Before Ramirez, Bullock, or Gordon could set foot on the cargo ship, before they could be trusted to come in and release the kids from the harmful tech, the Bat needed to be sure that John wouldn’t be tied to what Jack had done. He could be added to the ranks of stolen teens, among those who were raised on the streets, those who served the mob, those born of crime families, but he couldn’t be so obviously the Joker’s target. 

Too many questions would be raised, their answers dangerous for John, and for his nighttime persona. And, ultimately, for Bruce and his, as well.

A contingent of teens made their way over to him, slowly. Their hands felt at their necks, fiddling with the collars, trying to remove them but not having much in the way of luck. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” the Bat warned. “They might be booby-trapped.” The advice startled a few of them, and altogether, most hands fell. 

“We—” the first to speak, a young girl no more than John’s age when he’d first come to Bruce, fought to clear her throat to speak. “We don’t know where we are,” she finished, her eyes still glazed, affirming nods adding credence to her claims of confusion. “What… what happened?” 

Her question was echoed around her, behind her, in murmurs and hoarse voices. Grunting, the Bat hadn’t yet decided on how to spin the mess they were in. Perhaps it would be better to let Gordon piece his portions together. 

“You were kidnapped,” he offered, true enough without added detail. “Do you remember anything after that?”

Through the pause that followed, the Bat received blank stares, averted gazes, hums and concerned whines. Not a one of the teens before him claimed to have any recollection of what had gone on since they had been plundered from the city’s streets. Good. It was much simpler that way.

“We’ll work on that,” he directed. “Can you watch him?” Ripping the bottom of John’s shirt, he laid it over John’s ankles. “He’s hurt.”

“Yeah, we got ‘im,” answered one of the older boys. He and two others pushed forward, looking roughed up from before the Bat had had to fight with them, but taking charge of wrapping John’s sliced ankles to stem his bleeding. 

Confident John would be served well enough for the time being, the Bat turned toward the men that lay several yards away. That was the spot to which he had seen John led, where his argument and altercation with Jack had undoubtedly begun, and in an instant he knew why. Those faces had been on his computer screen far too many times for him not to know them anywhere. 

A quick tap to his cowl activated his headset, and he had Gordon on the line in seconds. 

“They’re alive,” he clarified after a simple enough rundown of information to get him there, “but bring ambulances, and be prepared to chase down some get-aways.”

He didn’t stick around on the phone, trusting Gordon to take him seriously. Right then, he needed to get the two wanted men out of the ship. It was clear enough, now, taking stock, that they had to be the missing bodies from the home invasion he’d worked with Gordon’s outfit. They were battered, bound, gagged, and quite clearly drugged enough that he had a feeling they possessed even less awareness of the present moment than the kids behind him. That, too, proved simpler.

Not willing to let Gotham’s finest detectives tie the henchmen to John and thus raise all of those questions they needed to avoid, he left the teens briefly, tossing one of the men over his shoulder while dragging the other by his shirt. First, out of the hold. Second, with some help from rope and winch, up to the deck. With no kids in sight, third was guiding the tumbler closer to where the ship was moored. Once the men were tucked carefully and securely inside, the Bat returned to the hold, helping corral the kids and keep them as calm as he could while they awaited the police. 

All he wanted was to be next to John, to hold him, to watch over him as closely as possible, but he couldn’t risk the suspicion such favoritism would bring. John would undoubtedly need surgery to repair the slashes to his ankles, their trajectory likely having severed his Achilles, but the bleeding had stopped. He would just have to settle for making sure he was taken to an ambulance, when they arrived. 


	22. Twenty-One

_______________________ **TWENTY-ONE** _____________________

The first time the world came back to him, John had to squint painfully as red and blue lights pulsed against his eyes, pounding through his head worse than any club he’d ever been to. Sirens slowly joined the strobing, and at last, an inhale of cold night air broke the trance.

They were outside.

Pain surged anew in his legs, and with twitches running down and through his feet, John wished, illogically, irrationally, that he didn’t have them. No feet, no pain. It made sense at the time.

When he couldn’t move his arms, panic began to rise in his chest. Were the ropes back around his chest? Why couldn’t he breathe right? Frantically, he stretched against the bonds, twisting his back and shoulders until he was able to pull an arm free of the restraint. 

It was quickly caught up by a gloved hand.

“Settle down,” ordered a growled tone, though softer, gentler, than he’d ever heard it before. “Save that strength; you’re already safe.”

Blotting out a significant portion of lights and commotion, the Bat’s dark silhouette extended the night above John. With careful pressure, John’s arm was returned to his side, though it remained outside of the strapping that held him to the stretcher. He was far from the only one aboard transport meant for the hospital, at least a dozen teens around him secured to their own. Their collars were still on, even as EMT techs worked on their wounds, tested their reaction times, their vitals. IVs were being set up to ride along with the gurneys. 

Even though he was by John’s side for the moment, John knew the Bat wouldn’t be able to stay with him. He’d have to treat him like he found him in the ship, not chased him down, like he didn’t favor him any more than any other kid that was stolen. It was what would protect him, protect them both. They’d talked about the implications of being ‘caught’ by those they chased several times, though John had to admit he hadn’t thought it would ever actually _happen_.

“Did’jya get him?” slurred out unevenly, John finding frustration in the effects of too many head-bumps.

Standing perpendicular to his side, the Bat glanced down at John, but quickly away, surveying the scene with an exaggerated sweep of his head and shoulders. “No one saw him leave,” he answered, his voice low, “nothing on his trail, yet.”

What the police department had been given, however, was the knowledge of a face to the actions around the city, and a citywide BOLO. John knew Jack wouldn’t likely show his face in Gotham again, at least for a long while, but maybe, just maybe, it would all catch up with him at some point. 

“What about…” He left the question unfinished, feeling a rush of shame at having considered using the knife he’d held, at how the option had appealed to him, no matter how he’d defied Jack’s temptations. Gloved fingers closed over his hand, stilling him, the understanding implicit.

“I moved them.”

They were more alone, for a moment, the last of the kids being brought out from below deck drawing the attentions of those around them. “The collars blocked their awareness. No one will know. It’s safer.” The Bat promised, quietly next to John’s ear while no one’s eyes were on them, that he would be sure to deliver them properly, so that they would face what they had done. Just not here.

John nodded, tried to squawk out a thank you, but he only managed to exhale as he closed his eyes, drifting until even the repeating cacophony of sirens and lights began to fade from his senses. Being lifted and ramped into the ambulance jolted him awake again, though he waved off the apologies of the techs who secured his gurney. The Bat was gone, and he knew it would be a while before he saw Bruce. 

“A little pinch,” came his only conscious warning for a shot of pain medication that ran coolly up John’s arm from the injection site. It was a welcome relief as it travelled. Left alone in the back, doors closed behind his secondary saviors, John let out a slow breath.

It was over.

Brows knitting, he felt an odd shape and sensation under his shirt where his hand lay over it, still out from one of its bindings to the bedding from his shot. Working against queasiness as the vehicle lurched to movement, running its siren in short bursts as they edged away from the dock, John wiggled his fingers beneath the shock blanket, under the material of his shirt, and to the edge of his pants’ waist.

His entire body went still, just for a moment, before he drew the playing card out from where it had been tucked. It had been against his skin, and it had _definitely_ not been there before he’d passed out in the cargo bay. He’d have felt it, he knew it.

Maybe Jack wouldn’t show his face in Gotham for a long time yet, but the card, a Joker, was a clear enough sign that he wasn’t entirely done with John just yet. 

But John was done with _him_.

Eyes lingering on the embellishments of the card’s style for a few moments as streetlight beams streamed bars of light across the walls of the ambulance, John took the last of his coordination and awareness to crumple the card into a tight, ruined ball. Releasing it, he barely heard the soft impact against the gritted metal floor, but it was there all the same. 

\---

The second time John was able to focus on his present surroundings, he was in a much more padded bed. His ankles were tightly bound, his lower legs stiff and heavy, probably in casts, though he couldn’t see them beneath the blanket.

As soon as his eyes popped open, the very moment he moved his head to even gather that he was in a hospital room, he was nearly smothered with kisses. Tired as he was, he returned them, grateful just to have Bruce by his side.

“How do you feel?” 

Offering Bruce a small, tired smile, John flicked his brow. “Been better.”

A warm hand engulfed his, and he gripped it as firmly as he could. Catching sight of it, he frowned. There was an abundantly clear set of teeth marks at his wrist. The skin hadn’t broken all the way around, but it was damaged enough. 

“I hope you’ve had your tetanus shots,” he joked flatly.

“Oh, this?” Bruce shook his head. “It’s fine,” he insisted. “Besides, with _my_ job, it’s a requirement.”

John laughed, but it hurt, dragging at his lungs, and he could tell that Bruce held his own more softly, as well. Talk abandoned, Bruce merely drew his chair closer, leaning into John’s space to return to kissing him.

After several moments, John reluctantly pulled back. "Careful,” he only half-teased, “aren't you worried some nurse'll come in and see?"  
  
More kisses stole his breath. They were firm, insistent, before a single word followed them: "Nope."  
  
With a smile at his lips, even occupied, John spoke directly against Bruce’s mouth. "You sure? They'll out you, you know. Tabloids pay big for shit like this. Not sure you're ready for that."  
  
Not a hint of hesitation stayed his efforts to attack John’s lips. “Don't care."

"It'll mean questions, reporters, tabloids, newspapers...” each word only came in between presses of contact, “maybe even a press conference or two. You gonna be 'Bruce Wayne: Loud and Proud’?"

Bruce snorted, then. But he pulled back, a teasingly pensive expression tugging at his features. "Hmm... Could be good attention to focus on Bruce Wayne for a while, you know. Distract..." He let the thought trail off. A smirk was making a valiant effort to burst into Bruce’s cheek.

John bit the inside of his cheek, keeping his playful smile, but feeling its spark begin to ebb. "Oh yeah? Is that the, uh… the only reason?"

The kiss that pressed quickly and closely lasted only a moment, but it felt like a promise. "No. That's definitely not the only reason."

John felt himself grin so wide it nearly hurt. "Good."

"Let's rest you up so we can get you home."

John nodded in agreement, but damn if he didn't feel like he was home already.


End file.
